


If

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative ending to s15 e20, Angst and Humor, Emotional Manipulation, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, Spoilers for s15 e20, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2018-12-18 04:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 73,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11866446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: Why do orange sim troopers always get dragged into trouble they did not ask for?Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.Grif just has to learn it the hard way.





	1. The Door

**Author's Note:**

> !!Spoilers for season 15 episode 20!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons should have known this place did not live up to the safety procedures.

Grif was in danger and Simmons was stuck on a ledge. That was the hard reality of the moment that Simmons was forced to deal with, and he looked down to see Temple slowly making his way towards Grif who was still in the middle of the task of pushing himself off the floor.

Simmons very briefly considered jumping in order to stop the scene from happening – maybe if he landed on Temple he could manage to save the day. But the fall would be too great, and Simmons mentally cursed Grif for taking the cable that now was hanging out of reach. He secretly doubted that he would even be capable of doing the swing that Grif had so miserable failed, but at least it would be a quicker way down.

So Simmons was forced to run back the way he and Grif had come from, eyes scanning for a set of stairs or a ladder or _anything_ that could bring him down on his friends’ level. While jumping down onto a crate, gradually making his way to the scene, he saw from the corner of his eye how Grif was now staring directly at a gun that was firmly aimed directly at his face.

But Grif did not say anything, he did not move, and instead he stubbornly stared down the person behind the weapon, and at this point Simmons could feel bile the clawing its way up his throat. As he managed to get his feet moving again, he recalled a scene that had taken place all the way back in Basic Training where Grif had stared down a drill officer who had rightfully accused him of stealing from the storage.

Grif had not backed down back then, he had not even flinched or moved his stare while the officer had listed all the punishments for lying to your superior. The descriptions had been horrible enough for Simmons to start shaking, despite knowing he himself was innocent and his name had not even been brought up, and Grif had remained still as a statue until the officer finally grew tired of trying to get a reaction from him. Grif had to spend the entire night running laps around the base, and Simmons remembered watching the punishment take place through a window with the rest of his platoon laughing at the sight of the private falling over his own legs in exhaustion.

Now the punishment would be a bullet through the brain, and Simmons refused to watch it happen. He had to stop it. Grif was still too stubborn to back down but if Simmons could just reach them…

“ _Shut up!_ ”

Simmons came close enough to hear Temple yell and at this point Grif was finally moving – suddenly pouncing on the enemy, tackling him to the ground.

The moment of relief when the rest of the team was released was too short. Simmons could feel his hopes rising again, now when his teammates were free to move again. Temple was outnumbered, Temple was cornered, and the odds were in their favor…

Then Loco arrived, shouting Caboose’s name.

And then too many things happened at once.

Temple had picked up his gun again but then Grif leapt at him again, grabbing his shoulder in an attempt to unarm him but the gunshot still rung out. The aim was off – because Temple was the shooter but also since Grif had been using his weight to throw him off balance.

The bullet still hit a mark, though, and a blue armored soldier fell over. Simmons’ brain slowly registered that it was Loco but something kept the relief from reaching him. He knew Loco was the best of the rotten lot, and Blue Team honestly did not deserve Caboose getting shot as well, with too many downed members already. But it was honestly the knot of dread in his stomach that kept Simmons immobilized – something was wrong, something was happening and…

The machine had been humming in the background, he realized, and now it was growling, letting out a whine as it came to life, controls glowing stronger than ever.

It was blinding, really, and a bright white light filled the room, effectively halting the fight.

And then, just like the shitty sci-fi movies Grif and Simmons had seen together too many times, the light died down to reveal the portal. They only had a few brief seconds to admire the sight.

Simmons’ brain was too busy acknowledging the fact that the time machine was indeed working, that this was actually possible, and there was a portal in the middle of the room, like someone had sliced through the air to reveal another reality, and when Simmons looked closely he could see sand…

The sight had distracted him from preventing what was happening.

Temple was trying to turn around to witness the wonder himself, and so he tried to get rid of Grif who was still grasping his arm. He shoved and Grif stumbled backwards.

There was a cord on the floor, and this place truly did not live up to any proper safety protocols, Simmons thought numbly, but the lava should really have been the first warning sign… His body was frozen, brain too slow to react correctly, and he watched as the orange soldier tripped and fell through the portal –

“ _GRIF!”_

Simmons raced forward, hand outstretched, and a cruel voice in the back of his brain reminded him of the irony, that this was exactly like with the cliff back in Sidewinder…

 _Exactly like Sidewinder_.

There was a small explosion somewhere and the smell of smoke made it through the filters of his helmet. The controls were blinking now, flashing dangerously. The controls turned too bright for a second, there were sparks, and then the light began to fade, the machine dying with a heavy sigh.

The portal failed to exist just as Simmons’ fingers could reach it.

The entire scene had only lasted seconds, and Simmons had still been too slow.

When the portal disappeared, it happened too quickly for his brain to process it, and Simmons fell forward. Slamming against the floor, the realization crept up on him, and he inhaled sharply.

“Grif.” Simmons got up, legs shaking, turning his head frantically to get a look of the room. Temple was on the floor, so was Loco, and the Reds and Blues seemed to stunned to move or even say something. Simmons was sure the only noise in the room was his own panicked breaths that turned quicker and quicker because _Grif was not there with them_. “Grif!”

He stumbled his way towards the machine, slamming his palms against the black screen when he lost his balance. It was quiet now, the humming was gone.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, _no_ ,” Simmons muttered over and over, pressing all the buttons he could reach, waiting for some sort of reaction, a light turning on, a symbol on the screen, _anything_. “C’mon, c’mon, turn on, goddamnit. _Grif_. We have to fix it, we have to-“

He was aware of his voice breaking. His fingers had begun to shake. “We’ll fix it. C’mon, stupid piece of shit, turn on, turn on, turn on, please _turn on_ …”

* * *

Grif’s head had been spinning even before Temple had pushed him. It was probably the aftermath of his glorious meeting with the floor that had him dizzy. The bright light had not helped.

He slowly pushed himself upwards, frowning as he felt sand between his gloved fingers, but he managed to stand up, legs shaking.

He turned around.

The weird portal, whatever it might have been, was gone. Grif was staring brown cliff wall that seemed to stretch around the entire… canyon.

Grif swallowed, mouth suddenly very dry.

He was still trying to come up with a coherent thought he could use to figure out what do to next when he heard footsteps behind him. He spun around, dizziness returning with full force, but he was able to recognize the soldier in cobalt armor…

But this Temple lowered his gun so it was no longer aimed at his face.

His voice was thin with shock and disbelief, so low it could only be counted as a whisper.

“…Biff?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Witness me mess up everything.
> 
> Okay, so remember those planned stories I talked about? This is not one of those stories. This was a stray thought that hit me after 1am, and I shared it with my friends, and suddenly the scene turned into something I could work with, and suddenly I had a plot and I literally spent my entire night planning this thing and I was so excited I could not sleep…
> 
> Anyway. Here we go. I wanted more Grif and Temple interactions no matter what.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. This is going to be fun.


	2. Grif With Two F's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif sleeps in a dead man's bed.

Grif tried to come up with a proper response. His first thought was to reach for his gun but when his fingers only grabbed empty air he realized he was unarmed. He must have dropped it when he tackled Temple… Future Temple.

He then considered threatening him, telling him to back the fuck off. His friends would have that portal open again in a minute and they had already kicked his ass before (or, well, they might still be kicking Temple’s ass, bastard deserved quite the beating) so…

Or he could lie. Lying was always a good trick. It had worked for him plenty of times before.

But his brain just felt fried. It could be a consequence from teleporting like this. Grif blinked again, looking past the soldier threatening him with a pistol, and instead stared at their sandy surroundings. He had been here before.

Locus’ ship had brought him here… (now that just reminded him of Locus and if he was alright and if Wash was alright and if they had reached the hospital and if you could even fix a wound like that and if-?)

Grif resisted the urge to shake his head to clear his thought. His stomach still felt unwell. He kept recalling Dylan talking about the time machine.

When he finally spoke, his mouth just took control, abandoning all strategies. “Please be fucking kidding me.”

His reaction seemed to take Temple by surprise. Pulling his head back, his pistol actually dropped an inch. “What?”

Grif considered running but the pistol made him think twice. Maybe he should just tackle Temple again. But that did not solve the whole gun-pointed-right-at-him-issue.

“Who the fuck are you?!” Temple barked, voice suddenly strong and demanding. The gun was raised to point at Grif’s visor again, and from how the soldier seemed to be absolutely fuming at his presence, Grif actually worried that he might pull the trigger.

But then again… Temple had not been able to shoot him the last time. For whatever reason.

From the corner of his eye he saw colorful movements that made his heart drop. For a split second his brain let itself by fooled by the identical armors but then Sarge – _no_ , not Sarge. What was it Simmons has called the red double again?

“Holy crap,” the one that looked exactly like Tucker said. Well, not _exactly_ since he had a sniper rifle on his back.

Not-Sarge was pointing his shotgun straight at Grif who was almost feeling like being home at this point. “Name and rank, scumbag.”

“Griffffffffffffff…” His mouth reacted by instinct before he realized maybe he should not give his real name. His introduction trailed off before he suddenly added, “With two f’s.”

The Caboose lookalike – _Loco_ , Grif suddenly remembered – waved. “Hello.” How weird, he had been bleeding to death the last time Grif had seen him…

“Grif with two f’s,” Temple repeated dangerously flatly. Grif sensed he was apparently not satisfied with the answer, and with all the weapons pointed at him it was hard not to gulp.

The pink one gasped. “Does that mean…?”

Temple kept staring at Grif. “They had the nerve to send a fucking _replacement_.”

Grif had been called a lot of things in the past but never before had one of the insults held that much resentment.

For a moment he could just feel Temple’s furious glare through the visor. Everyone in the group seemed to shift nervously.

Finally Temple moved his head to bark at his team instead. “Did no one see the ship dropping him off?!”

“Hey, you told me to keep an eye on Loco! The sky is like the only direction I don’t have to worry about him getting lost in – he never managed to make those jetpacks work, remember?” Not-Tucker said, and, seriously, what was his name? It was driving Grif crazy.

“Didn’t see anything, sir,” Wannabe-Sarge said. “Must have snuck in like the rats they are.”

With a motion so sudden that it made Grif jump back a bit, Temple snapped his head back to stare at the orange soldier. “What did they tell you? Did they see anything?!”

“No,” Grif replied, having no idea of what that question meant anyway. He just knew he did not like all the weapons ready to fire. “They just dropped me off. Fucking chill, dude.”

“Does this mean we have a Biff again?” Loco clasped his hands together in excitement.

Simmons had never mentioned a Biff, not even back when they had been stuck in the cells and he had given Grif a brief summary of what had taken place in the lair before Grif had showed up.

But he just remembered that Not-Sarge’s name was Surge, and, well… Grif and Biff. It was not too hard to figure out. And judging from the word _replacement_ it was clear this Biff was no longer here.

“ _No_!” Temple snarled, causing Loco to back one step away from Grif. “You’re not staying.”

“Aw, Temple, don’t be rude,” Pinkie said. “He is one of us after all.”

Nope. No. Never. Definitely not.

Before either Grif or Temple could argue, Not-Tucker tilted his head. “He has a point. You are a sim trooper, right?”

Grif just nodded wordlessly, still trying to recover from Pinkie’s comment.

Not-Tucker let out a satisfied huff, turning to Temple who shrugged him off. “Whatever. We don’t need him.”

Loco made a confused noise. “But I thought we were looking for-“

“Since when do you think?” Temple sneered but after two seconds of stunned silence his shoulders began to slump a bit. He sighed deeply before telling Loco, “My apologies. That was uncalled for.”

Grif decided it was time for him to have a say in all of this. “Look, I hate to make you happy but I’m out of here anyway. Just… gimme some minutes.” How long could it take to restart a time machine? “And just _fuck off_.”

He had straightened out his back, glaring challengingly at Temple. His face was throbbing, and he was pretty sure he could feel dried blood under his nose. He still remembered how forcefully Temple had shoved him…

“Fine,” Temple suddenly said, tone light. He even shrugged, like it suddenly was not a big deal. “Besides, we have work to do.” He turned around on his heel, gesturing for the team to follow him, and then they all walked away, towards Blue Base.

As the weapons were redirected, one by one, Grif felt exhaustion taking over his body. He blinked, staring after them until he was sure they were at a certain distance.

Then he sat down, legs folded.

He dug his hands in the sand, taking in deep breaths. The headache refused to fade, however, and in the end he just allowed himself to groan loudly.

Well, that had been a pain to deal with. At least they had not shot him or anything.

And years from now Grif and his friends were going to kick their asses. So fuck you, fuckfaces. Let’s see who would be cocky then.

This was obviously Desert Gulch but… When? Were they terrorists by this point? It did not seem like it. But who knew if they were hiding a bomb in one of the bases or something like that.

Not that he had to care about that. Right now he just had to stay where he was and wait.

It would probably take the guys five minutes before they could restart the big monster of a machine. Maybe ten. Fifteen. Surely they were working on it.

He resisted the urge to take off his helmet and run a hand down his sore face. It was probably best to keep on his armor should they try to snipe him or something.

The desert’s bright sun was shining down at him. Grif felt himself sweating.

At least he was left alone on the spot now. He could leap into the portal the moment it appeared. There was not really anything he could do here alone, not when the machine was back with the others.

Nothing to do but wait then. 

* * *

“What is he doing?” Temple asked when they had reached a proper distance. Even from here they could see the newcomer on the ground, legs folded, seemingly staring at nothing.

“It actually looks like he is trying to summon a level six fire demon,” Gene could not help but say. When he realized the others were sending him stares, he quickly added, “You know, if such things existed in the real world.”

Cronut tilted his head. “Maybe he is doing yoga! Ooh, maybe I finally have a buddy I can try out new positions with!”

“He’s not-“ Temple cut himself off with a strained sigh. “I don’t trust him.” When he turned his head, he could see that the orange soldier was still sitting down, seemingly doing nothing but stare right ahead at the cliffwall. “Keep an eye on him,” he ordered Buckey, tearing the sniper rifle off his back and shoving it in his hands instead.  “And keep your fucking finger off the trigger.”

“Hey, when was the last time I shot something by accident?” Buckey snorted and lifted the weapon so he could watch this Grif through the scope.

“The time where we had pigeon for dinner,” Temple replied with a dry voice. He then turned to the rest of his team. “Let’s get going – we have work to do.”

As they began to march towards the entrance of the canyon, he raised his voice to sternly remind them, “And for fuck’s sake, remember to cover up the machines when you are done! We almost got spotted today.” Behind his visor, Temple frowned, still unsure of what this recent event would come to mean to them. “And we have only just begun.”

* * *

When today’s work was finally done and they returned to their bases, Temple found Buckey half-asleep. He shoved his shoulder, earning a half-choked snore from his fellow Blue.

“C’mon,” Buckey told him, “it’s not like he’s going anywhere. He’s been sitting there all day. Pretty sure he’s out of his freaking mind. Like we don’t have enough lunatics here. Why couldn’t they send a chick for once?”

“She would have to be crazy to fall for you anyway,” Temple pointed out. The sky was dark now but he was still able to make out the faint outline of the newcomer. Like Buckey had said, he had not moved an inch.

The rest of the team caught up with them, following his stare. “Is he sleeping?” Gene asked in suspicion.

Loco gasped in horror. “Is he dead?!”

Temple ignored that comment and instead turned to Surge. “I don’t want him unsupervised during the night. Take him to your base.”

Surge chuckled, tightening his grip on his shotgun. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

Someone kicked Grif in the stomach. He groaned, curling up slightly. Sarge must have found him napping. He did not even remember drifting off.

“Rise and shine, buttercup.”

Right. Not Sarge. _Surge._

Not that it improved the situation.

Grif slowly managed to force his eyes open, blinking slowly until the view of a shotgun’s barrel stopped being blurry. “M’just nappin’,” he muttered tiredly. He had not planned on falling asleep – he had been waiting for that stupid portal to show up again and how long could it take the others already…

“Well, now you’re marchin’.” Someone grabbed the collar of his armor, hoisting him up with surprising strength. The moment he was on his legs, Surge gave him a shove to his back, sending him stumbling forwards.

Gene walked next to him, making sure Grif could see the gun in his hand. “You’re staying at our base tonight,” Gene told him, and something about his tone made Grif think that was perhaps not a good thing.

He looked over his shoulder, looking back at his spot. Still no portal. Probably tomorrow then. Grif could get some sleep and be ready for his upcoming rescue.

Not like he had much of a choice anyway with a shotgun pointed at his back.

“Great,” Grif replied, hoping his voice was strong enough to make it sound sarcastic. But he did not count on it.

Gene let out an offended huff, and the two Reds led him into their home.

The base was so familiar that old instincts simply kicked in. Grif found himself wandering down the hallway, oblivious to the gun pointed to his back. Maybe his mind was just too tired after a long day. He could still feel the after effects from his high on methshrooms, not to mention his throbbing face, and the battle had taken place… Years into the future? Did it even count as a long day when a day technically had not passed?

While his brain tiredly tried to find some answers to all his questions, he turned a corner to enter their sleeping quarters, dropping down heavily in his bed while still wearing full armor. He closed his eyes.

“Hey asshole, get off my bed!”

It was first when someone shoved a pistol roughly into his side (he recognized the sensation after years of rude awakenings in Red Base) that he bothered to open his eyes again.

Gene’s helmet came into view. “Didn’t you hear me? Get off!”

“Fuck you. This is my bed.”

Grif knew his way to his bed. It might be the most important route in his life. He could find his bed in his sleep. He had always slept in this side of the room.

“No! See, this bed has covers! It’s being used! I’m using it! It’s _my_ bed!” Gene’s shrieks had that annoying whine to it.

Grif responded by pushing his head deeper into the pillow. “Fuck you.”

Gene inhaled sharply. For a moment Grif wondered if he was going to shoot him (not that Grif intended to move) but the maroon soldier just began shouting, “ _Suuuuurge!_ ”

The sound was so piercing that Grif actually let out a groan. “What are you – five?” At least Simmons had stopped this childish act years ago. He would still push Grif off the bed if he was in the mood but he had not called for Sarge like a spoiled brat since… Blood Gulch.

Grif swallowed, suddenly feeling nauseous. Maybe he had managed to give himself a concussion with his stupid hero stunt.

But the thought that right now, in Blood Gulch, somewhere, Grif and Simmons were busy bickering in their shared sleeping quarters, Simmons yelling at Grif until Sarge finally showed up, bringing his shotgun while he ordered them to quit yapping…

Gene managed to get a hold of Grif’s arm, pulling him off the bed so he landed face-first on the floor. Pain flared through his bruised nose. With a victorious huff Gene looked down at him. “Go sleep in Biff’s bed or something.”

“Not like he’s using it,” Grif could not help but mutter. This caused Gene to freeze and Grif saw this as his chance to escape to the bed in the other side of the room. It was lacking a pillow and blanket but the mattress was better than the floor.

His body was tense for a minute, waiting to see if Gene or Surge was going to bother him some more. But the base was quiet and then the light flickered off. He could hear Gene turn in his bed.

Grif considered taking off his helmet at least but then decided to keep his armor on. It was probably the best idea since he was surrounded by enemies. But, things considered, the situation could have gone much worse.

He was just going to take a nap. A short one. He just had to be ready for tomorrow, to be ready to leap the moment the portal reappeared. Surely it could not take that long to start a fucking time machine.

With the exhaustion caused by the day that never ended, Grif managed to drift off, sleeping in a dead man’s bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Surge is different from Sarge by the fact that he is usually armed with a railgun and not a shotgun – BUT if we look at the flashback set in Blood Gulch he attacked with a shotgun, indicating he first got his railgun later on. Just to clear up any confusion why I let him have a shotgun in his chapter.
> 
> Also – no freaking way my forgetful ass can remember to write “Griff” every time they refer to him in dialogue. So I will just be using “Grif”. Just know they believe it is spelled with two F’s.
> 
> Aaaand Temple is very very pissed in this chapter. He will return to his more smooth and calm behavior later on.
> 
> Anyways, thank you so much for the support on the first chapter! I’ve had so much fun planning this fic and I love writing it!


	3. Desert Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif waits.

Grif woke up and wondered why Simmons was sleeping in his bed. It was not because he had anything against Simmons invading his mattress and blanket – he would just prefer to share space. The few times where his teammate had actually given in, either driven by a nightmare or alcohol, were some of the rare nights where none of them suffered by nightmares.

He then blinked groggily, wondering how they had ended up in their shared quarters back in Blood Gulch.

The person in his bed shifted… and Grif came to the horrible conclusion that the man sleeping in a maroon shirt was not Simmons.

Grif scrambled backwards, hitting his head against the wall. This just made him thankful for the fact that he had been sleeping in his armor, and his helmet worked as protective layer.

He stared at his HUD, trying to figure out the time but his clock seemed to have broken. It kept telling him it was 07:24pm, and Grif lay still in the bed, waiting, and the numbers never changed.

Apparently time travelling could break your helmet. Good to know.

But judging from the fact that Gene was still asleep and the base was unnervingly quiet it had to be in the middle of the night. Grif knew he would not be able to catch more hours of sleep – not just because of yesterday’s (the future’s?) events but because he had been struggling for sleep the last weeks, ever since, well…

He quietly slid out of the bed, managing to sneak out of the room without making a noise. Once he reached the doorway, Gene rolled over to lie on his back, soft murmurs leaving his mouth. For a moment Grif froze, believing he had been caught but when he listened closely he realized that Gene was merely muttering the numbers of pi in his sleep… Just like Simmons always did.

Grif left the room without raising an alarm. He was even able to walk down the hallways without anyone waking up. Clearly they were not aware of his stealth skills… But then again, had his team been aware of them? Truly? Had they known when he had sneaked out to meet with Gold Team, to infiltrate the food storage? Or when the nightmares and memories crept up on him and he had to walk around the sleeping base, listening, just to be sure?

It was still dark outside. At least he had managed to gather some hours of sleep. It would have to be enough. He quickly snuck back inside the kitchen to grab some protein bars. He had hoped for some treats as well but the cupboards were empty for any sorts of snack.

No one woke up to stop him as he sneaked back outside.

Red Team sucked at keeping prisoners. What a surprise.

His spot was rather easy to find, despite how all the sand made everything look alike. But there was a certain dent in the cliff wall that he recognized, and when he really focused he could almost imagine the weird blue light that would split the timelines apart…

Grif swallowed what little spit that was left in his mouth and sat down.

He could try to leave but what would the point be? This place was in the middle of nowhere, just like Blood Gulch. He did not have a ship to escape with. And even if he had, it would do nothing to help his situation.

This… No vehicle could help him escape from this place. Even if he could make it to Blood Gulch, what would he gain? To see his team, maybe himself… And was seeing your past self not something that could break reality? He needed more sci-fi movies for research.

And even if they were still there, if they had not been split up and moved to different outposts, if Wash had not already found them…

But it did not change the fact that he was here, _now_ , and that he did not have a time machine. The others had a time machine. The others had to fix this because they were the only ones who could.

The morning sun was rising, coloring the canyon in a warm, red light.

Grif took off one of his gloves, keeping his right hand free. The one Simmons had given him had damaged nerves as a result of Sarge’s surgeon skills, and right now he needed to feel the sand, needed to let his fingers play with it, anything to distract his minds from the thoughts he was supposed to ignore…

He heard some shouting in the distance and that was good because the scene was reminding him of the moon where he had been sitting at the beach, hands in the sand, waiting, but the moon had been quiet. No shouting.

The voices quieted down and no one came to disturb him. They were probably watching him from a distance, like yesterday. He had noticed Buckey from the corner of his eye.

But it was a good thing that they did not bother him. The less contact between him and them the better.

Grif needed to be alone.

He would just sit here and wait. Alone.

And he would be fine. Here. Waiting. Alone.

But he had to stay here for when the portal returned. Which it would. Of course he was not quite sure if the time machine was limited to one location but if it wasn’t then he was royally screwed. How would he know where to wait? At least this place had a chance of letting the portal appear.

And maybe it was taking them quite a bit long to get the machine up and running. But it had not even been a day, only around a half, or maybe a bit more, he was not sure since his helmet had broken and was that normal or was it caused by the machine or was it just lack of armor maintenance because Simmons always screamed at him to check up on his armor and clean it and wipe away the gravy stains but Simmons had not really been there to yell at him lately and in the beginning Grif had not even bothered to wear his armor so maybe it had just begun to rust and that was why it broke but it did not matter and he could probably ask Simmons when he got back and how long would that take and just how did the machine work again because Grif was not even sure if it needed to be recharged or if it ran on fucking AAA batteries-

“Ah, I know those. I use them for my flashlight.”

Grif blinked slowly, fists slowly uncurling in the sand. The blue soldier was sitting right in front of him, mirroring his position with his legs folded. Grif had not heard him arrive.

Loco tilted his head in a curious manner. “Do you- Do you need any?”

Grif considered answering him but his throat felt so dry that it hurt when he inhaled air. He narrowed his eyes in annoyance by the interruption. At least the anger steadied his breaths which had grown awfully quick before, making him feel light-headed.

With a low huff he simply turned around so he was sitting with his back to the Blue. He had not been aware that he had been mumbling his thoughts out loud but it did not surprise him. He knew he had picked up certain habits during his time on the moon.

Loco let out a disappointed sound when his offer of conversation was rejected. Not that Grif cared. He just had to ignore them because none of this would matter once he escaped through the portal.

Now with his back turned to the cliff wall Grif could see the two bases. It was so horrible familiar, he could almost imagine colorful soldiers running back and forth… Except this place was weirdly quiet.

His vision was obscured by the color blue. Loco was apparently rather stubborn and had merely stood up just to sit down in front of Grif again. “I spy with me little eye-“

Grif groaned and forcefully twirled around again, digging up sand with his palms in the process. He crossed his arms, back to glaring at the cliff wall. If the portal could appear any time now, it would be great.

“-something… sandy,” Loco finally said.

Rolling his eyes, Grif decided he might just play along. Just once. If it could keep him off his back. “The sand?” he replied in a voice as dry as the desert heat.

Loco gasped. “How did you know?!”

“Loco, stop playing with the prisoner!” Gene shrieked, suddenly appearing on one of the sandy hills behind them. “You were supposed to watch him from a _distance_!”

“Oh.” Grif could hear Loco stand up again. For a while he seemed to be waitng for some sort of reaction from Grif who kept scowling while facing the cliff. “I’ll see you later, Not-Biff!” he yelled in excitement before finally leaving.

Grif convinced himself that he appreciated the silence. Munching on one of the protein bars, he reminded himself that somewhere else Gene had been slowly falling to his death and Loco had been bleeding out.

* * *

Maybe the time machine had just broken a tiny bit and that was why it was taking so long. Well, it had only been two days which could probably not be described as _long_ compared to how bad it could be. But it had been enough time for him to create a sort of routine: wake up early to steal food, then spend the rest of the day at his spot until Red Team would finally herd him back inside their base for the night.

They did not even expect him to leave. Where would he go?

Grif sighed and reached out with a hand, trying to see if he could feel any traces of where the portal had been. Of course it did not work. Stupid. Why had he even tried?

It was… It reminded him awfully of the beach back at their moon, the one he had enjoyed at first because the waves reminded him of home, his true home back in Hawaii, where the sound of rushing waves functioned as a lullaby, but at the moon he had grown tired of the noise while he sat in the sand, a snack in his hand, and he would stare at the sky, waiting, sometimes wondering, and one single time he had been stupid enough to reach out, fooling his brain he could see a dark spot in the distance, but he knew better than to believe they were coming back because they had no reason to do so and in the end he had ended up leaving the beach when he suddenly remembered the volleyballs they had used for fun, harmless tournament before the others left, warm evening nights where they had convinced Carolina to come play with them and she had kicked the others team’s asses but that was before the volleyballs had faces and now he just wondered if Locus was taking proper care of them-

“Le squadre pensano che sei pazzo e non stai facendo molto per dimostrarlo sbagliato.” [The teams think that you are crazy and you are not doing much to prove them wrong.]

Grif looked up, suddenly aware of the robot staring down at him. There was a gun in his hands but at least it was not directly aimed at his head. Grif considered, somehow managing to gather his thoughts as he recalled the language he had taught himself. “¿Así que haces pizza?” [So do you make pizza?]

“Lingua sbagliata. Idiota .” [Wrong language. Idiot.]

“Idiota,” Grif said slowly, tasting the word. It was good to find some common ground, he supposed.

* * *

Back on Chorus, and that felt like an eternity ago, Simmons had tried to keep himself busy with fixing old broken monitors. He often began such nerd stuff when he felt anxious. Grif had watched him curse and kick the old machine when it refused to turn on. It had taken him five days before it proved itself somewhat functional.

Surely a time machine was more complicated than some old piece of shit that the rebels had managed to scavenge from some ruin. There was no reason to panic just because he had been stuck here for three days. The others were surely working on it.

And Simmons might have a tendency to screw up under pressure. So with Grif gone he might be struggling to keep his cool. But it was okay and Simmons was smart and a nerd and surely he could work this out if he had the time and the right tools and with Dylan’s evidence they were all free to go, right, they could gather what they needed and there was no way they would just leave him behind, even though they would not have come back for him on the moon, at least no one had hinted they had thought about coming back, and that was okay, and Grif could understand that, but he just hoped they were not still angry but even if they were then it was cruel to punish him with silence like this when-

“Quit your yapping,” Surge snapped, circling around Grif who remained sitting. “One wrong move, son, and you’re forcing my hand!”

“Sure,” Grif said, rolling his eyes behind his visor. He had to suppress a yawn. He had not been sleeping well. Just like back at the moo-

“I don’t trust you,” the Red Team leader continued to growl. “We might scrape off your paint and see that you are _blue_!” He spat out the word. “Or even worse – a UNSC spy.”

“Yeah.” Grif smacked his lips. Surge’s yelling was not improving his headache. “I really seem like the type, don’t I?”

“I KNEW IT!”

Grif flinched – why did all versions of Sarge have to be so loud?

Surge planted his feet right in front of him, aiming his shotgun at Grif’s forehead. “Any last words, scum?”

“Would you knock it off?” Grif brushed the barrel of the gun away with an annoyed wave of his hand. With a low huff he crossed his arms, turning his head slightly so he could stare at the cliff. “They screwed me over too.”

A few seconds of uncomfortable silence later Surge let out a nonchalant grunt and left.

* * *

On the fourth day Grif had mentally gone through all the time travelling movies he had ever seen – and most of them had been watched together with Simmons during one of their many movie nights, and those memories just made his stomach curl up into an uncomfortable ball. He had tried to watch the few movies that had survived Donut’s fire after the others left, but it had just not been that amusing.

Point still was that Grif had travelled through time – and in movies that meant he had the chance to fix things. At least in theory. Most of the plots ended with the hero messing up everything and then having to back once more to restore it all to the less awful status quo.

That was not exactly promising. And truthfully – what could he do? He was unarmed. And even if he did find a gun and if he managed to kill Temple, would it fuck up the timeline? Without Temple would there even be a time machine and without a time machine would his friends still be working on it?

And he needed them to be working on it. Well, he understood if they didn’t. It would suck but Dylan had talked about how starting a time machine would be the end of the world and that was pretty bad and in truth Grif did not want that to happen but he just really wanted to go home and by that he meant _home home_ and not just Blood Gulch but he wanted to be back in his own timeline with the others but then again – Wash had been rushed to the hospital and of course the others wanted to check up on him and not wait four days on some stupid island –

“Hey, asshole, are you dead?”

Grif opened his eyes to stare right up at Gene. Gosh, he hated him.

He did not remember lying down to nap even though some hours of sleep was all he wanted. Most of the night was spent on staring at the ceiling, just _wondering_ …

“If you are dead, could you at least have died on the Blues’ side of the canyon? I don’t want the stench from your rotting corpse so close to me.”

Grif groaned and rolled over. Simmons had called Gene annoying. That was an understatement.

Grif hated Gene. Hated the way he wore maroon armor and how his voice was just too alike and how it sometimes managed to trick his tired mind for just a second.

“Hey, I asked you a question.”

“Fuck off.” Grif sat up so sudden that Gene actually jumped back in surprise. “Seriously. _Shut up_.”

It even made him stutter. “Y-you-“ Way too fucking familiar.

“ _Shut_. _Up_.” Grif swallowed something bitter. “I’m napping.”

“I should just shoot you.” From the sound of Gene’s voice, he had offended him. Good.

“Go ahead.”

“I- You- _Ugh_.”

Gene marched away with angry steps, and Grif closed his eyes and recalled the wonderful image of Gene dangling above lava.

* * *

He could leave. He was standing up, staring at the entrance of the canyon. It was right there.

But leaving meant giving up hope that the others would come for him.

And Grif just… couldn’t.

He clenched a fist, reminding himself of all the reasons why he hated this desert with his entire being. He hated the heat and the way the sun was always shining a bit too bright. He hated the sand. He hated the seemingly empty bases. He hated the silence.

He hated how it reminded him of the moon. How sometimes he would wander too far into his own thoughts and believing he was back at the beach because when he was alone it felt like it – the others were not here, they had left him behind and they were not coming back for him and why would they when Grif was so useless –

“Heeeeeeeyyy.”

Oh god.

Five days and now Cronut had decided to be alone with him.

Grif had the growing feeling that being alone with Cronut would not help his declining mental health.

The pink soldier was marching towards him with a bit too much confidence in his steps. At least he was not waving a gun around.

“So,” Cronut said when he finally reached him, voice levelled and gentle, “I think it’s about time we talked.”

Grif groaned loudly. “Let’s not.”

“Let’s discuss fashion!” Cronut clasped his hands together, looking Grif over with a tilted head, obviously searching for any faults. “Is orange your color of choice, or was it more like a forced decision?”

“Don’t tell me the UNSC _didn’t_ shove you into your pink armor.”

A horrified gasp. “It’s not pink! It’s-“

“ _I know_. Ligh-“

“Reddish-white!”

Grif blinked. There was a weird sort of exhaustion crawling up his spine to embrace his brain and he honestly did not try to fight it off.  Instead he just sighed. “This place sucks.”

Cronut tsked at him. “Well, your poor attitude isn’t helping!”

* * *

They were not coming. It was day six, not even a week, and the realization had settled in his mind, making itself comfortable. He wished he could shove it away but he was just so _tired_.

In front of him was the same fucking rock he had been staring at every day since getting stuck here. There had been nothing. Not even a faint blue light, not even a shimmer. Nothing.

The machine must have broken. And the others must be unable to fix it. They would not leave him behind. Not when he came for them, despite everything, and while they had not seemed exactly happy to see him they had appreciated the rescue eventually and he had apologized and that had to be enough because he had tried, really _really_ tried his best even though it sucked and it hurt and the methshrooms made him feel nauseous, and he would have kept trying –

“Hey, asshole, get out of my way!”

A harsh voice and a low sort of growl tore him away from his depressive thoughts. Gene liked to complain about everyone in the canyon, and so Grif had snatched up the names he had forgotten during his involuntary stay.

Buckey was in a… A crane, he realized. It had stopped less than a meter from Grif who just looked up at the growling machine with a dumbfounded look behind his visor.

The Blue laughed at his stunned silence. “Hah, that’s right! We’re playing with the big tools now. Bow-chicka-wah-wah.”

Grif was aware that he made a lot of mistakes in the past. And maybe he could have been a nicer person and all that. But he was pretty sure he did not deserve _this_.

“Seriously. Move your ass or I’ll run it over.” Buckey looked too smug in the driver seat of the big yellow machine. It occurred to Grif he should probably ask where they had found the crane and just what they were using it for. But he knew the Blues and Reds had been doing something in the further end of the canyon, out of Grif’s field of view.

But he had not tried to figure out what they were planning. He had been sitting at his spot. Waiting. Every single day.

“Fine. Have it your way!” The crane backed away slightly as Buckey prepared to accelerate. He then sped forward – but stopped just before the machine could touch Grif who had not even as much as flinched.

And then, slowly, Grif raised a finger to flip him off.

“Ah, you suck!” Buckey let him know before directing the crane around him in a half-circle, continuing his way to his destination without running him over.

Grif heard the growls of the machine fade away but he did not as much as look over his shoulder to see where it went. Instead he doubled over slightly, pressing his palms against his visor to support his head. He inhaled sharply.

The Blues and Reds were certainly up to something.

Too bad Grif did not care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your support! It means a lot!  
> School starts Friday so updates for this story will probably slow down a little but the story will still continue, slow and steady!


	4. At the Bottom of the Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif wishes he had spent more of his life drunk.

Grif had spent way too much of his life sober. Not by choice, of course. Before their mother had left he had tried to be a good example for Kai, but the day he realized she was not coming home again, well… He had needed a blackout.

Then came Kai’s parties where he had to keep his head clear in order to keep an eye on her and to be ready to throw out groping boys. The day he learned he had been drafted… He did not really remember much from that day.

At some point Kai had shaken him awake, tears on her face. When she had found out about the news, she had cried harder and drank what was left in his bottles.

When he had joined the military it had been harder to get a hold of alcohol. There had been nothing to numb the terror of Basic Training with, and when he finally arrived in Blood Gulch he had wanted to drink and forget his memories of the massacre, but Simmons, as the rule-obeying asshole he had been back then, had made sure to hide all the bottles.

It was first one night after their surgeries where they had both been awake, unable to sleep, whether it had been from the pain of their stitches or just the sheer absurdity of their new condition. Grif had not even needed to say much before Simmons had sighed and showed him the secret stash behind the cleaning supplies he knew Grif would never go near.

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” Simmons had asked as Grif grabbed a bottle. “We are both still taking painkillers and a combination of medicine and alcohol could-“

At this point Grif had just shoved the bottle into his hands, and Simmons had managed to move it to his lips on his own. It had not been a surprise to see that Simmons was a light-weight.

It had cleared the tension from the room, and at some point a slurred “thank you” had left Grif’s mouth.

Simmons had looked at his new, shiny metal hand for a moment, flexing his fingers. “No problem.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah.”

The rest of the night had been filled with soft whispering, and at some point Simmons had giggled at something Grif had said and then the bottle had been empty and that thought had almost made Grif cry. Good thing he could still keep up a poker-face while drunk. Unlike Simmons who had been wearing a loopy grin the entire night.

After the whole Red versus Blue war had been sorted out, and they were all kinda not sworn enemies, Tucker had begun his movie night tradition. And, well, after the third round of _Reservoir Dogs_ Grif had to put his foot down.  

“Tucker, make me drunk.”

“No way. I’m saving it for something special.”

“Simmons, make Tucker make me drunk.”

“I’m not hauling your drunk ass back to Red Base.”

“Tucker, if you make me drunk I will vote for _Reservoir Dogs_ every time.”

“Every time?”

“Can you make Simmons drunk too?”

“Grif, I am not getting drunk.”

Simmons got drunk. When they finally stumbled back to Red Base, legs wobbly, Sarge accused them of treason, Simmons had said it was Grif’s fault and Grif had happily accepted the blame. He regretted nothing.

The next time had been just after Sidewinder. Red Team was so small all of sudden, and Sarge had wandered off on one of his surprise night time patrols (so the enemies never expect it, apparently) so it had been just Grif and Simmons. Just them.

Grif’s hands had been unable to stop shaking – which was of course normal after a near death experience – and Simmons’ face remained pale no matter what Grif did to make him blush. The night had been quieter than the movie night experience. Quietly they had drunk for those who had died and those who had miraculously survived.

It had been somber as fuck, but damn it had been needed.

Then came Chorus and somewhere in the middle of captured teammates and teenage soldiers and too many newly dug graves they had managed to find some half-empty bottles (or half-full, as Simmons had pointed out) and they had ignored their misery together.

At some point Bitters had stumbled upon them, and the little shit of a Lieutenant had tried to blackmail Grif by threatening to send evidence to Kimball, but Grif could respect that. Bitters had seen an opportunity and taken it. Like a maverick.

And then they had all survived (somewhat. Not Church, not Church dying was kinda routine by now. And the guy deserved his rest) and they had been badass and they had healed and people were celebrating their victory and things had been _awesome_ and then the temple incident had happened.

It had been… Well, _hot_. But it had also resulted in several days where they had avoided each other like the plague in fear of actual eye-contact, and those days had sucked.

It ended when Grif had found Simmons wasted in the armory. It had been a rather pathetic sight, actually. A mess of too lanky limbs and loud hiccups. Simmons had not even tried to stop Grif from forcing the bottle out of his hand and drinking what was left.

Then they had sat on the floor for a while.

“…Hey,Grif? I was thinking, about the temple, maybe we should just not…”

“Sure.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Don’t even know what you’re talkin’ about.”

Things had been fine after that. Normal. And normal was fine.

So when the reporter showed up and destroyed everything that was normal and fine and calm and awesome –

-Grif had needed a drink.

And since there had been no one to stop him, Grif had scavenged through Blue Base until he found what he needed. He did not need to share this time. He could do whatever he wanted. No one there. No one to stop him from doing whatever he wanted.

So when he had been stumbling around aimlessly, tripping over his own feet, yelling and cursing and shouting and wiping the wet of his face with an angry motion of his hand no one had been there to judge him.

Right now he was not alone. But that was what it felt like.

Gene was muttering quietly in his sleep, “…seven one six nine three nine nine three seven five one zero...” and at this point Grif had tried covering his head with his pillow to block out the noise. It did not work. Right now he was considering if he could just suffocate himself and get out of this miserable situation. Maybe he should just suffocate Gene. Yeah, that would probably work better.

But he didn’t.

He woke up and snuck out of the base, just like he had done the days before. It was much too early for him to go to his spot, it was still dark and probably just past midnight but Grif had given up any hopes of sleep.

He knew what he needed right now.

Grif went to Blue Base.

* * *

Tucker always kept an emergency bottle filled with the strong stuff under the couch, taped against the underside so Caboose could not find it by accident. Drunk Caboose was not something Grif wanted to deal with.

That was the one good thing about these counterparts. Grif could somewhat figure them out. So when he pulled out the bottle from under the couch he had not even been surprised. Buckey probably also had a masterbatorium somewhere.

Grif snuck out of the base without anyone waking up. Yeah, he was that stealthy. They did not know just how badly they were underestimating their prisoner. It was the middle of the night and Grif was roaming around freely. He could do whatever he wanted.

That was just what happened when no one cared about Grif. When he was left alone.

That just meant he had no one holding him back.

Grif took a gulp and felt his throat burn. It was a good feeling. He took one more.

He wondered if Buckey would be as mad as Tucker would have been if Grif had stolen his stash. He hoped so. These guys were so alike…

This Biff, how had he been? Was he like Grif? Did he think running sucked and that tacos could totally go as breakfast? Had he been run over by a tank? Had Gene been willing to save him? Had Biff been drafted? Did he have a little sister back home?

Had he ever been left behind? And if that was the case would he ever feel lonely enough to paint volleyballs? What would the volleyballs say to him?

And if Biff, hypothetically, had stumbled through a portal made by a weird time machine and ended up in a gulch, surrounded by enemies who did not even know they were his enemies, would Biff then wait for his friends to come for him, and if he came to the conclusion that they wouldn’t, would he then end up stumbling around in the middle of the canyon, drunk, yelling whatever stuff that fell into his head because it was better than the silence?

The canyon was spinning right now. Grif slipped in the sand. Everything was just a blur of brown and… sandy. The bottle slipped from his fingers.

It was okay to yell. Who was there to judge him? He did not care what the fuck the Blues and the Reds thought of him.

And the others were gone. And they were not coming back.

But this place was much better than the moon, anyway. Why should he care? At least there were people here. Voices. Real ones. No need for volleyballs. Grif could figure this out on his own. He wasn’t useless. Despite what the others thought. He could handle this. He did not need the others. They were probably busy getting dragged into a new adventure anyway. Good thing for Grif he had been torn away from that mess.

His face was wet again. That sucked. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and realized he was not wearing a helmet. Right, he still hadn’t perfected his drinking with a helmet on technique. Where was his helmet? And where was his bottle? Why did his fingers keep dropping things? And why did his throat keep hurting.

It was just…

_Grif had come back for them_.

“Would you _please shut up_?!”

Grif spun around, stumbling again, and saw something blue… blue- _ish_ marching in his direction. He wanted to yell something back at him but it just ended up as a shaky exhale. There was a sour taste in his mouth.

Temple placed himself in front him, towering over him, trying to intimidate him into giving him some sort of reaction.

Oh, Grif wanted to give him an answer. One that would wipe that stupid smirk of his face. Well, technically Temple was wearing a helmet so who knew if he was smirking but Grif could totally imagine him doing it. Temple was an ass like that. Probably smirking all the time.

He wondered which expression Temple had worn back when he had tried to shoot him. And failed. What had he thought about?

The scene was kinda familiar, right now, actually. Just a cobalt helmet staring at him… Waiting…

Oh, Grif was gonna give him an answer. He was gonna give him the truth.

Grif slowly straightened out his back, trying his best not to sway even though it was really, really hard. He looked directly at Temple’s visor as he spat out the words, “You’re a batshit crazy, psychopathic, out of your fucking mind maniac.”

His words were slurring but he was pretty sure he got them right. Maybe he even managed to sound angry.

His rant seemed to have some sort of effect since Temple pulled his head backwards. “ _What_?”

Grif was ready to say it all again. He meant every word. But the world was still spinning and his tongue just seemed to flail around uselessly.

He fell forward as he tried to repeat his statement.

Too bad the only thing that left his mouth was vomit.

Oh well. Maybe Temple got the point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School's started, but things are pretty chill. So the updates should be okay quick this week.
> 
> Time for some serious dialogue between Grif and Temple in the next chapter. About time.
> 
> Thank you for your support!


	5. Hangover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The most awkward dinner ever. Of all time.

Grif woke up and wondered if Buckey had indeed carried out his threat about running him over. It felt like it. His entire body was aching. His head pounded in a steady pace, nausea hitting him like waves every time.

Rolling over he came to stare at blue fabric. A couch. A blue one which meant he had to be in Blue Base…

_Oh fuck_.

Grif groaned and tried to shield himself from the realization by turning his head and staring into the cushion of the couch. Just that single motion made his stomach twist in protest.

He remembered bits of last night. Sitting in the sand, like he had done the days before. He had been holding something, a bottle... More blurry memories came to him: looking up at the sky and seeing the stars melt together, reaching out for the portal that was not going to show up, cursing his friends who were not there.

And then... Temple.

“Good morning.”

“Fuck.” Grif groaned again at the sound of the voice. If it was aiming for a joyful tone it failed by being a bit too stiff. At least Cronut had sounded genuine the times he had tried to start a conversation. Temple just sounded passive aggressive, and Grif did not feel like dealing with a pissed Temple right now. He tried to sit, his arm shaking when he pushed himself upwards with his palm. “I’m gonna-“

“I’m afraid I couldn’t locate your helmet." Temple marched closer so he was standing right next to the couch. When Grif opened his eyes he saw the cobalt armor.  "You must have lost in it in the middle of your… fit. Pretty lucky for you, considering your weak stomach.”

Grif frowned, trying not to let the insult get to him. His stomach was not weak; he felt like telling Temple about the six year old snack cake he had eaten in front of Simmons back on Chorus. Even Bitter was not strong enough to beat Grif when it came to eating old snacks.

But true; he had thrown up yesterday. Grif blamed the fact that he had pretty much lived on granola bars for a week, plus that weird sick feeling that had been plaguing him since getting stuck here. Maybe something called time travel sickness existed?

 “Drowning in vomit inside my own helmet is not the way I’m gonna go," Grif admitted and closed his eyes again. The light was just too bright and the image of death by vomit was not calming his stomach.

“Oh, there are worse deaths," Temple told him. Grif couldn't figure out if he was trying to sound casual or ominous, but it ended up as a mix in-between.

It didn't help that Temple was just standing there, staring down at him and adding to the eeriness.

It took a while but Grif managed to fight through his headache and half-numb brain and realize that perhaps Temple was waiting for something. Not that Grif actually wanted to please him, but it would be easier to go back to napping without anyone staring at him. “Look, if you’re waiting for an apology you might as well sit down and get comfortable.”

“That’s rather rude – especially since you were the one who decided to get drunk in the middle of the canyon, yelling nonsense while other people are trying to sleep, not to mention your little outburst when you saw me.”

Grif stared at Temple's blank visor with narrowed eyes. He thought it was rather unfair that he could hide his face like that while Grif was exposed. He didn't enjoy the vulnerability, but at least losing his helmet had saved him from one of the most humiliating deaths. “You’re the one aiming guns at people’s foreheads," he grunted. The room tilted before his eyes again.

“I didn’t pull the trigger.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that just warms up the welcome like a fucking heater.” Grif eventually gave up trying to sit and just slammed his face against the worn couch pillow. It was better than looking at Temple, and when he closed his eyes his headache actually seemed to dull a little.

“Well, apparently you are staying here.”

But something inside Grif reminded him that this was Temple: _the_ Temple who had tried to kill them all, who had locked up his friends, sent an army after them and eventually held a gun to Grif's head. Being in the same room as him was not something Grif had planned.

Grif found some strength he did not know he had left and tried to leave the couch, only to have the world turn white before his eyes. Something was buzzing in his ears. He groaned and doubled over, pressing his arms against his stomach.

Something scraped against the floor. He opened his eyes to see Temple shove a bucket towards him with his foot. “If you miss, you clean up your own mess.”

He did not sound particularly worried about Grif's current state - which was fine since he did not need his worry. Grif raised his head to the best he could, narrowing his eyes to spit at him, “Then who cleaned your armor?” 

They both remembered the scene with different reactions; Grif smiled secretly as he recalled throwing up on the soldier while Temple pulled back with an offended huff. Grif had clearly hit a nerve. “By the way, you missed a spot," he told Temple and nodded towards his chest plate.

He could feel Temple sending him a glare through the visor before looking down at himself to check for any brown spots. Grif had aimed to piss him off and he almost smiled with pride when Temple told him in the stiffest voice possible, “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave now. Work doesn’t do itself around here."

Temple had already begun to walk out of the base but then he suddenly called out his shoulder, "But don’t worry: Loco will stay to keep you company.”

Grif barely had the time to let this horror sink in before something fast and blue landed next to him on the couch, almost causing him to bounce on the cushions.

“We will have so much fun together!” Loco told him, voice so loud Grif almost whimpered.

* * *

With Loco chatting nonstop right next to him, Grif abandoned any idea of fleeing to his usual spot. Instead he let the headache defeat him. He curled up on the couch, trying his best to ignore Loco's pokes and questions, and he decided that Temple was indeed an evil maniac for punishing him like this. Obviously the chance of torturing Grif like this was the only reason he had bothered to drag the unconscious Grif back to Blue Base in the first place.

At least Loco had brought him some glasses of water. Grif could have hugged him for that, though he would have preferred something greasy and salty to soothe his stomach. It had been too long since the last time he had burgers.

“Quiet game. Quiet game. Can we _please_ play the quiet game now?” Grif squeezed his eyes together, wishing he had a pillow to cover his ears with. Or just to suffocate himself to escape the never-ending chatter.

“Why, we haven’t finished this game! It’s your turn!” Loco waited patiently for ten blissfully silent seconds where Grif almost thought he could drift off. Then the Blue seemed to realize Grif was not going to pick up a card, and instead he helpfully played Grif's turn for him. He glanced at the new card - blue six, from what Grif could see from his position - and put it on top of the pile on the floor. “Ah, blue – I wasn’t prepared for that.”

Grif had been listening to Loco play for hours, and each excited yell felt like a hammer to his forehead. He wished to sleep. When he slept he didn’t have to deal with all this bullshit. He didn’t have to think about what the others were doing and what he could possibly do himself. 

An idea invaded what felt like his stuffed skull, only adding more pressure due to the already limited space in there. Grif rolled over with a groan and then blinked until he looked somewhat awake as he asked Loco, “How long does it take to fix a time machine?”

The idiotic genius had to know. He had built the freaking thing. Grif almost felt bad for not manipulating the enemy into helping him sooner.

Loco froze, immediately forgetting about the cards he was holding. “Ah, that’s- That’s a very interesting question." He tilted his head. "I’ve never thought about that before.”

“You’ve never thought about time machines before?” Forget the hammer: a freaking chainsaw was breaking through Grif's skull right now. Was this all his fault? Had he just accidently given Loco the idea for a machine that would be the cause of this whole mess years from now? Was that how time travels worked? Because in that case Grif had just screwed up - _surprise_.

“I am thinking quite a lot about it now.”

“Wait, stop-“

Loco looked up at him, voice strangely serious as he came with his answer, “I suppose it’s quite hard to be late if you can go back and forth. Unless you get lost. That can happen. I get lost a lot.”

Grif stared. He then blinked and licked his lips, trying to make his mouth feel less dry. Damnit, the idiot had a point. If you were able to go back in time... Then it did not matter how long the machine stayed broken. Even if it took them freaking years, they would still just be able to go back to the exact moment where Grif had been stuck here. Grif shouldn't have to wait, not when they controlled freaking time.

Which meant...

Grif’s stomach decided to do a flip again.

 “UNO!” Loco yelled loudly and slammed his last card against the floor.

Head-diving into self-pity, Grif looked at the ceiling and reflected on the Spanish word. “Uno… Uno solo soldado naranjo.” He sighed deeply. “Siempre.”

Immediately Loco’s helmet appeared in Grif’s vision. “Oh my god. Are you Lorenzo’s cousin? Is that why you’re visiting?!”

Grif wouldn’t have bothered to answer the question anyway, but he didn’t have to since Gene suddenly entered the room. “That’s not Italian. That’s Esperanto.”

All voices were like a hammer to Grif’s poor head. But Gene’s ( _Simmons’_ ) voice was like something sharp being forced into his chest.

He didn’t want to look at maroon armor so he turned over again. He could hear footsteps; quite a lot of them actually.

“Man, I should be the one lying on a couch. That was my fucking stash, asshole.”

Grif flipped off Buckey, not even trying to look at him.

“Why didn’t you just leave him for the vultures again?”

“Because I am tired of them shitting on our roof!” Temple replied from somewhere else in a room. A moment later his voice turned calmer, smoother, as he continued, “Besides, I think we have all decided that Grif could be a useful addiction to our team.”

Grif repressed a shudder at the sound of the fucker saying his name out loud. Not to mention how this indicated the others had a whole discussion with a conclusion about what to do with him.

Someone huffed in disagreement, and Grif would bet his last granola bar that it was Surge.

For once Grif had to agree with the enemy: Grif was sure as hell not going to be a part of their team.

More footsteps, more quiet banter in the background, and the smell of food started to spread in the room. Grif closed his eyes and did his best to ignore all of it.

“Dinner time!” Loco shouted and a too strong grip dragged Grif out of the couch before he could fight against it. A few seconds later he landed in a chair, unsure of what had just happened.

After having blinked a couple of times, Grif realized he was sitting at a dining table. Next to the Blues and Reds. He was eating dinner with them.

There were a lot of things wrong with that. A lot. Grif still remembered fighting these people, Gene struggling against Simmons, Temple pointing his gun to Grif’s forehead, Loco bleeding on the floor…

But one thing was right about this: food. Grif was tired of granola bars and other dried snacks, and even this horrible-looking, probably too old MRE on the plate in front of him made his teeth water.

He was so focused on the hot meal that he forgot about the consequences of sitting next the others.

“Dude, what’s with your face?”

Cronut tsked at Buckey’s comment. “Rude.”

New people meant new reactions to Grif’s skin draft. Not that he cared. “What’s with your face?” he grunted back at Buckey while focusing on cutting what might be a carrot with his knife.

A moment after he lifted his eyes slightly. Dinner meant the Blues and Reds had removed their helmets as well. And honestly, seeing the real faces beneath the helmets was more comforting that Grif would like to admit.

When he just saw the armors in the distance, sometimes his brain would be foolish enough to forget his situation and for a moment just believe he was back home. Now he was indeed aware that he wasn’t surrounded by his friends. There were some uncanny similarities but not enough to make him think they were in fact related to the others or something like that.

Temple caught his glance with steely blue eyes and cleared his throat. “I think a proper introduction is in order. I assume you already know Surge, Cronut, Gene and Lorenzo quite well.”

He waved towards the Reds that had taken place at the other side of the table. Surge grunted so his bushy mustache moved up and down. Lorenzo said nothing because no one understood him anyway. Cronut waved excitedly at him, his smile so big it revealed teeth so shiny they might have been from a toothpaste commercial.

Gene huffed, looking away. Grif took comfort in the fact that he did not share Simmons’ red hair. The tone was off, more brown than red. He didn’t have Simmons’ freckles either: Grif clearly remembered how the dots had decorated the nerd’s nose.

Temple moved his hand so he was gesturing towards the remaining part of the group; the blue end of the table.

“Buckey is the guy you stole from and, well, I hope you and Loco have gotten to know each other today. My name is Temple, and I’m the leader of this small team.”

Grif was probably supposed to react to the introduction but he kept his eyes lowered, focusing on shoveling as much food as possible into his mouth. He was not sure if they would kick him out of the base soon if he kept up his rude behavior. He might as well try to fill his stomach before that happened.

For some seconds Temple just stared at him, mouth seemingly growing thinner and thinner until it was just a line.

“As I am sure you have noticed, we are not quite keeping up the whole blue versus red image,” he then said in a light-hearted tone that did not match the stormy look in his eyes.

Grif swallowed. For a moment he considered correcting him because _blue versus red_ sounded dumb as shit. But why bother? He lifted his fork to fill his mouth instead.

Temple waited for another moment before realizing he was not going to receive any sort of reply. “I am not sure how things worked in your previous base. In fact, I am afraid we don’t really know anything about you. Your arrival was unexpected, to say the least.” He sent him a creepy sort of smile that was probably supposed to be friendly but somehow ended up looking pissed off instead.

It just made it easier for Grif to stay quiet.

Eventually it was Cronut who broke the silence by slamming his palms together and exclaiming, “We should play a game to get to know each other.”

That just earned a snort from the other side of the table. “What about no?”

Cronut waved him off. “Buckey, I am sure he doesn’t mind us playing with him. Isn’t that right, Loco?” He turned towards the said Blue who nodded eagerly, clearly thinking of their game of Uno. Grif was still not sure how he had managed to win twice without actually playing.

“Or we could just go with a good ol’ fashioned interrogation. Dibs for bad cop.”

“Does this mean I can wear my officer costume?”

“ _Or_ ,” Temple said in a tone that made both Surge and Cronut fall quiet in an instant, “we could just ask Grif where he is from.”

Grif began to scrape the gravy-like substance off his plate to lick it off his knife. He did not look up as he said with a shrug, “A gulch.”

“Not really the specific type, huh. Did your gulch by chance have any name?”

For a moment Grif actually considered his answer. He had already given them a fake name with that extra _F_ in order to avoid messing up the timeline or something. Things had a habit of getting messed up so Grif had to be careful. Not that had counted on staying here until he could meet the other version of himself… Now that would be a sight to see. Grif mentally told his friends to hurry the fuck up already.

Luckily for Grif, he had another base to discuss instead of Blood Gulch. “Doesn’t matter. All wiped out.”

To his surprise, a genuine stunned silence filled the room. Loco turned his head to stare at him. “That’s… That’s really sad.”

Grif shrugged again, ignoring the eyes staring at him.

Eventually Temple cleared his throat, brushing some ash blonde hair away from his forehead. “My guess is that things got out of hand.” For a short moment his eyes darted away from Grif. “You could say the same thing happened here.”

Grif gave zero shits about sad backstories. He doubted they could beat his own, anyway. “Intriguing,” he snorted.

Temple narrowed his eyes and said with a steady and calm voice, “I don’t think you understand.”

“I don’t,” Grif replied flatly, licking a finger before pushing his plate away. It felt good to have his stomach full for a change. Even back on the moon resources had been scarce after the fire… Fucking Donut…

His head felt clearer now as well. While his legs had been unable to cooperate this morning, he now had to resist the urge to leap from his chair and march out of the base. He was pretty sure he could do it.

And now he had even managed to steal their resources by eating dinner with them. It was a good plan, of course the others would have agreed with his choice. It wouldn’t be right for him to starve…

Temple kept eye-contact and his ability to avoid blinking was rather unnerving. “We’ve decided that tomorrow we’ll let you in on our current project. Once you realize this is about you as well, I believe you’ll gladly participate.”

“Fun fact about me: people don’t count on me to do stuff.”

“No kidding,” Buckey snorted under his breath.

How Temple managed to keep up his polite smile was a wonder. Grif was almost impressed. “Well, it seems like you are going to stay here, to everyone’s surprise. Making yourself useful wouldn’t hurt.”

Grif didn’t answer.

He left. His legs managed to stay steady and bring him out of the room. He didn’t look back to see what reactions his abrupt exit might have caused.

He wasn’t quite sure if he had been heading towards his spot or Red Base or… He didn’t know. He just wanted to get out of here.

The moment he stepped outside and the fresh air hit his face and he could look up at the darkened sky that suddenly seemed so, so big, pulling Grif in with its stars shining so temptingly.

There was a moon as there as well. Was it Grif’s moon? Probably not. Was he ever going to see that moon again? He was not sure if he wanted to.

Grif’s legs slowly gave out, causing him to slide down the wall until he was sitting in the sand again. At least he landed softly.

He kept his eyes trailed on the sky. Maybe if he saw a shooting star he could wish for the others to hurry up. That was how it worked, right?

He probably had a bigger chance of seeing a shooting star than seeing the portal in the canyon tonight, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are sorta getting to the plot kinda thing? I guess?
> 
> Sorry for the wait. I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, thank you so much for your support!


	6. Capture the Flag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temple quotes Shakespeare.

Grif had planned to not give a fuck. To tell Gene to leave him the fuck alone and then maybe take a shotgun shell from Surge if he had to. He would have found his favorite napping spot, the one Sarge never managed to track down. Surely this place was mirrored enough to grant him that peace.

But of course his luck (or lack of luck) meant Temple had suddenly taken a certain interest in him today. _Yay_.

“Good morning.”

Grif opened his eyes and stared straight into a golden visor. It took his brain a second to remember this was in fact not a big and solid version of Church. That should be easy to remember. Church was dead. Again. And Grif had made sure that didn’t change.

Closing his eyes, he burrowed his face in the pillow again. Temple was not something worth leaving his bed. Temple was barely worth an insult at this point. Not when he took them this well. Stupid polite act. Everyone knew you were supposed to stutter or get mad when someone insulted you.

“Very well,” Temple sighed.

At least he knew how to take a hint.

And then Grif slammed his forehead against the floor.

“This usually works,” Temple said a bit too smugly, after having pulled his sheet off the bed in one quick, practiced movement. Grif never even had the time to react before his face made contact with the floor. With his face still being covered in bruises, it was not exactly pleasant.

He slowly sat up, trying to hide the tears of stinging pain that threatened to fall. He’d almost prefer the shotgun alarm clock.

“Do you wake up all your teammates like that?” he grunted as he got on his legs. Temple had surely done this trick before. Poor soul who had suffered this treatment every morning.

“Today we’ll be showing you your new workplace,” Temple let him know instead of answering the question. “I’m sure you’ll find it more rewarding than the endless game of capture the flag.”

“Watching grass grow was more entertaining than capture the flag,” Grif told him. “And I’d know – I had _watching the grass grow_ written in my job description.”

“This will be… something else.”

“Hey, I didn’t sign up for anything,” he reminded him. He wasn’t sure what they had planned for today, but judging from Temple’s excitement it couldn’t be good.

Temple tilted his head. “And neither did we, but fate is funny like that, isn’t it?”

“Right. I can’t stop laughing.”

“I see you haven’t bothered to locate your helmet yet,” Temple changed subject and gestured for him to follow him out of the base.

Grif hesitated for a moment, looking back at the bed that never truly felt like it belonged to him, but he quickly ended up walking right behind Temple. Might as well see the bullshit and then not deal with it. That was how he had lived his life before.

He couldn’t even quite remember how he had managed to get himself back to Red Base last night, and he seriously doubted he’d bothered to look for the helmet. It wasn’t on his head and it wasn’t in his room, so he’d have to do without it. “Don’t suppose you have a spare orange helmet?”

Temple stared at him.

And continued to stare.

Grif shifted awkwardly, wondering where he was supposed to look because he sure as hell wasn’t going to have a staring competition with Temple. The moment was weird enough as it was.

Finally Temple looked away. He sounded rather pleased as he said, “We’ve come quite along with our little project but we always need an extra set of hands.”

Temple’s cheerful behavior was like a shiver down Grif’s spine. He kept looking at Grif’s bare face, and since Temple had the advantage of a visor hiding his expression, Grif felt like he was giving something away without realizing it. He put up his poker face, hoping that showing how bored he felt would send Temple a message.

He led him out of the canyon, towards the entrance where the rest of the group was waiting. Cronut and Loco seemed eager to see him, waving and asking how his morning was. Gene stayed close to an annoyed Surge, both with their arms crossed. Buckey was just glaring at him, and Grif had this growing feeling he might not be too happy about the stolen alcohol. Lorenzo said nothing.

“Well, it’s time introduce Grif to what is truly happening in our little gulch. Welcome to our cruel world,” he announced, almost making a bow, and Grif wanted to throw his dramatics to a place where no one would suffer from them again.

He knew what was ahead. He remembered walking here with Locus, guns raised, the thoughts running through his head: _the others were in danger, they needed him, he could do this, he would save them and they would forgive him and it would be alright, and they_ needed _him_.

They were going to the entrance to the underwater lair.

“Voilà,” Temple said as the secret door swung open in the cliff wall. Grif had an urge to reach out and knock it to check if it was real rock or not.

Loco gasped. “It gets me every time,” he told Grif as he stepped inside the elevator.

“That’s ‘cause you forget the location every freaking day,” Buckey snorted impatiently before the door closed with a _ding_.

Grif felt weightless. He wasn’t sure if he was going down or up or back or forth. He was just moving.

He remembered being in the elevator with Locus. The mercenary had kept a tight grip on his gun, staying quit until he finally asked Grif if he was prepared for the mission. And Grif had replied yes, of course he was, he’d even been the one to suggest that he could be the distraction because he was always the distraction in Sarge’s plans, he’d been trained for this, so he could totally do it, but he’d had problems telling all this to Locus because he kept getting distracted by the –

“Fucking elevator music,” Grif sighed, not even aware he had spoken the words out lout.

“Oh, I rather like it,” Cronut said and swung his head back and forth in the pace of the music. He even hummed along to the tasteless melody.

The movement stopped so abruptly Grif almost fell over, resulting him to step into Gene who didn’t hesitate to shove back. The _ding_ sounded, the door opened and the Blues and Reds stepped into the lair.

Grif froze, remembering the last time he’d been down here. “Step forward, son,” Surge said and pushed him with his shotgun so he could walk around him.

Temple had turned to face him as Grif walked to the center of the room, blue-tainted from the underwater lightning. “Welcome to our-“

“Evil lair?” Grif finished for him. Looking around he came to realize it was not exactly the same place he’d snuck into with Locus. Well, it _was_ , but it wasn’t quite ready yet. Some walls were only half-built, tools and equipment were spread across the floor, and pipes and cords were laying unused in the corners.

“ _Evil_ is a relative term.”

“Oh, I’m sure so many people describe lairs as totally good and comfy and not at all-creepy looking.” A whale swam by the window. The situation was bizarre. “Just where did you get this stuff?”

“Ebay,” Buckey told him, a crate in his arms. “Duh.”

Cronut nodded eagerly. “It was even on sale! And I managed to get us some extra, exciting accessories to spice things up a bit. The blue light is so dull down here.”

“You bought an evil lair on Ebay,” Grif repeated slowly, dumbfounded. “Huh.”

“Of course that still leaves us with the manual work,” Temple said, waving a drill around with his hand. “But with your help, the work should only go faster.”

“I doubt he’s able to carry his own weight,” Surge grunting, casting a disdainful glance in Grif’s direction. “Heh, I doubt anyone here can carry _his_ weight.”

“He’s calling you fat,” Buckey explained helpfully and leaned closer to Grif.

Grif replied dryly, “Yeah, I got it.”

“Now now, let’s give Grif a chance to prove himself. He doesn’t even know just what we are accomplishing here.” Temple stared at Grif once again, expectantly. He reminded Grif of a dog waiting for the ball to be thrown.

He shrugged. “Are you waiting for me to ask-?”

“We are fighting against injustice!”

Grif groaned, sensing another speech beginning to take shape. He wondered who was worse: Sarge or Temple? Well, the real question was who held the longest speeches. Figuring that Temple might earn that title, Grif sat down on a nearby crate. He might as well get comfortable.

“I hate to be the one to tell you, Grif, but your life, well, it’s a lie.”

Grif tilted his head, considering. “…I think that’s a good thing?” Seeing how miserable his life was, he’d like to wake up to be told it was a lie all along.

“You are not fighting for a noble cause. You’re not a part of a war. Your sacrifices mean _nothing_.” Temple placed himself directly in front of him. Grif wondered how his expression looked behind the visor. The others were working quietly in the corners of the room.

“The UNSC didn’t find you suitable to their war. But instead of sending you home, they sold you. Yeah,” he said, shaking his head grimly, as if Grif did not believe him. “But you are not alone. We are many who were deemed unworthy. And so we came in the hands of Project Freelancer. And to what – to die. Their program specializes so-called super soldiers and we- we are just cannon fodder to them.”

Grif crossed his arms, trying to get in a comfortable position with his back against the wall.

Temple looked at him for a few seconds before continuing, “Don’t you understand? That is why we don’t fight. There is no Red versus Blue. It was just a game, and we were the puppets. But no more.” He stepped closer. “This is why you’re here. I’m showing you this to save you, to recruit you to this war where you can fight for your rights, your justice. It’s a shock, I know, but even this cruel truth is better than to die in their mindless game. The UNSC manipulated us, destroyed innocent lives and still stands as a sign of justice – but it is time for the Simulation Troopers to prove them all wrong. To quote the great Shakespeare: One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.”

A heavy silence filled the room when Temple finally fell quiet. He seemed breathless as he eagerly stared at Grif, awaiting some sort of reaction.

“Meh.”

Temple seemed to falter, shoulders being lowered in disappointment. “You’re… not shocked?”

Grif froze, suddenly realizing he was not supposed to know the whole issue with Project Freelancer. He faked a gasp. “No Red versus Blue? My world is falling apart! It can’t be!”

“You’re mocking me,” Temple realized, voice low and cold again.

Grif was pretty sure there would be a lot less wars in the world if people just stopped giving a fuck. He sighed, letting Temple see the whites of his eyes. “Dude, why bother?

The other man clenched his fists. “Because we were lied to. _Sold_. Killed for their amusement.”

“So?” Grif shrugged, turning his head. The other Blues and Reds suddenly seemed very interested in the spots on the floor, never raising their heads. “You got screwed over. Life tends to do that to you.”

“You are not taking this seriously.”

“You figured out the truth – congrats. So why not go home? And chill? Instead of going batshit crazy.”

Temple’s fingers were twitching. “I’m not- You don’t understand. You are refusing to understand.”

With a snort, Grif placed his hands behind his head. “Nah, I’m just dumb. Sorry to disappoint.”

In three long steps, Temple was suddenly right in front of him, visor glaring down at him. “I’ll have to make a better point then,” he said with the slightest of shrugs.

Temple wasn’t scary. He was annoying and rather psychopathic. But Grif had dealt with crazy people before. “What are you-?”

Temple’s gloved hand closed around his wrist in a hard grip. “Follow,” he ordered and proceeded to tug Grif off the crate with enough force to make him stumble. He didn’t let go, and Grif found himself dragged out of the room, down a quiet hallway.

He turned his head to watch fish swim by, and a sense of concern grew inside his chest. He liked water. When he could swim in it. He didn’t like water when it was surrounding him like this, threatening to crush the windows and drown him.

Temple forced him along.

A door opened, revealing a small, darkened room. It took some seconds before the light in the ceiling turned on.

Temple stepped in first, finally letting go of his wrist. Grif quickly pressed his arm against his chest to avoid being tugged along again.

The room was empty except for some shelves in the other end. It was hard to see with Temple blocking the sight. He was fetching something from the corner, picking it up slowly.

Then he spun around and shoved a wooden stick into Grif’s hands. Too long time ago, back in Blood Gulch’s Red Base, Sarge had forbidden him from ever touching the red flag in fear of him tainting it with his orange-ness.

At least the flags back in Blood Gulch had been more fancy looking than this piece of garbage.

“Are those underpants?” he asked with an amused snort. Man, if he could just have had glued a couple of underpants to a stick and claimed it was Blue Team’s flag, he’d saved himself from Sarge’s bullshit early on.

But apparently Temple didn’t find this flag funny. He tore it from Grif, only to spin it around and shove the other end into his chest.

He used enough forced to make the jab hurt, despite the armor. Temple’s voice did not waver, “This-“

Grif looked down.

“-is how much your life is worth.”

The end was stained with dried blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so disappointed Grif was never told about Biff in the show, I apparently wrote a time travelling AU to fix it.
> 
> Sorry for the wait! I've been working on a lot of other projects, and I've been dealing with sickness in the family the last month which makes it hard to focus. But I finally updated, yay!
> 
> Thank you for the support!


	7. I Quit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif is not a fan of elevator rides.

Grif stared at the dark stains. It was still pushed against his chest in a manner that made it impossible not to imagine what had happened back then. Finally he lifted his head to glare at Temple instead. “…Are you trading me away for a shitty stick?”

“I-“

“’cause you can go shove it up your ass instead,” he cut him off and pushed the flag pole away. Temple let go so it fell to rest against the wall behind Grif.

He almost seemed to be shaking, fists clenched tightly to keep a calm façade. “You are, with no doubt, the rudest individual I’ve ever met.”

Hadn’t Simmons told him that once? Back in Basic when they’d first met? Grif couldn’t quite remember.

But this time it was definitely meant as an insult. Grif set his jaw. “Oh, buddy, you don’t even know me yet. I have so many other ways to disappoint.”

“You-“ Temple made that weird inhaling sound Simmons would sometimes choke on when he got infuriated. The difference was that Simmons looked like a stuttering, stressed nerd when he did it. When Temple removed his helmet with a quick motion of his hand, he just revealed rigid, cold eyes. He inhaled sharply, keeping his voice calm as he asked, “Did you know we once had an orange soldier?”

Grif stiffened, unable to hide his curiosity. Yeah, he’d heard of that soldier. But he’d never been given the entire story. Not even by Simmons when he had given him his quick update of what had happened to them while he’d been a lonesome ass on the moon. “Biff.”

Temple froze when he said the name out loud. His pupils seemed to expand to the point where his eyes just seemed dark. “Yes.” His fists became clenched again. “Project Freelancer found it entertaining to put two best friends on different teams and see how it’d turned out. Took some while to get used to, pretending to hate each other. But our acts worked well enough. Desert Gulch was never really the place of fatalities. Please do note my use of past tense.”

It was too hard to try to hold a snort back. “Noted.”

It didn’t stop Temple from continuing his speech. “But apparently our little stalemate didn’t please the audience. So they decided to bring in some new players. Two Freelancers – their so-called _Super soldiers_ ” he used a high-pitched, excited and obviously fake voice at those two words, and then the tone turned dark again, “were sent down here for a little game of capture the flag. And they were… _eager_.”

“And better than you.”

Temple tilted his head. “You could say that.”

“C’mon.” The Blues and Reds might grow to be terrorists eventually but Grif had seen his own team being beat up: no way these guys would last a minute longer in a fight against a couple of specially trained soldiers. For a moment he imagined the sweet sight of Temple being punched in the face. “Freelancers would totally kick your asses.”

“You sound very sure of yourself.”

Oh, that statement was almost worth a laugh. “I’m not saying Tex didn’t kick our asses. ‘cause she totally did. And some nuts, if you want the details. Well, until she died. Not that it lasted that long. Why the fuck were our lives that weird?”

He’d expected a reaction to the mention of _‘dying but not really’_ because such an illogical phenomenon was apparently viewed as crazy by the rest of the world – unlike in the lives of the Reds and Blues where it was more like a common and sometimes annoying occurrence.

But Temple’s eyes widened at the sound of the name. “You- Agent Tex- _Texas_? You _killed_ Agent Texas?”

“Not _me_. Do-“ Right, he couldn’t mention names. He dragged the word out to save himself, “-ooooon’t think I’m that awesome.”

Temple still looked at him like he was an incredibly alien sent to save the human race for once. “But you- _your_ team _killed her?_ ”

“Well, technically.” It was so long ago. Back when things had been simpler. Still crazy with ghosts (but not really) and a crazy AI and a talking bomb but it didn’t beat an entire planet dying because of some asshole’s greed. That was the new kind of dark crazy that seemed to be tainting Grif’s life. He shrugged, shifting the weight on his feet. “What – was she the one who shoved it up his ass-?”

Before he could move out of the way, Temple had rushed forward, pinning him against the wall while grabbing his shoulders with his hands. For a moment Grif was sure that this was it – he was gonna be stabbed in the stomach or something like that. Temple’s eyes definitely looked crazy enough for murder.

But then he threw his head back, _laughing_. “You killed Agent Texas,” he repeated, as if not capable of believing it. He tightened his grip to the point where Grif had to hide a winch.  Then Temple’s big smile turned dark. “And that leaves Agent Carolina.”

If Grif hadn’t been painfully aware of the hands on his shoulders he’d believe Temple just punched him in the stomach. It felt like it. “ _Carolina?!_ ” He then shut his mouth so quickly that his teeth clanked together.

Luckily Temple was too caught up in his own tragic backstory to notice his shocked reaction to the name. “She came to our base, _my team_ , to fight with us. We thought- We expected it to turn out like it always did: some idiot steals the flag or gets captured or shoots himself in the foot. We didn’t give care for it. But they, oh, they fought like their lives depended on it. They had no need for us, we merely watched…”

Temple trailed off and Grif knew he was waiting for him to ask. He hated to give him what he wanted but no one had bothered to tell him Biff’s story before. “Until?”

Temple was snarling again. “Until Agent Carolina,” he spat out the word with obvious hatred, “decided to drag Biff into their fight. He never… She used him as a human shield, and when he got in their way they never as much as raised an eyebrow.”

“Uhm…”

Temple was in his face now, so close he could see the anger in his pupils, like small lightnings dancing in the blackness. “They killed him and didn’t care the slightest. He didn’t matter. Not to them.”

Grif couldn’t remember when he’d last been hold like this. It wasn’t comfortable, not at all, and he wouldn’t be surprised Temple’s fingers left dents on his shoulder plates. He remembered his time on the moon, where he’d lost track of when he’d last been in contact with another person and where he’d almost missed Sarge slapping the back of his head (usually followed with a grunt sounding like “stupid”), but now he longed for some privacy. It felt like Temple was clutching him so tightly it kept the blood from reaching his lower arms.

Temple looked him straight in the eyes. “I watched my best friend bleed out while they got to declare a winner. Then they left. The game was over. And we were left with our loss.” He leaned backwards, just the slightest, so he was no longer breathing into Grif’s face. “That’s why we fight. Because to them, we are worth nothing. Just a pawn to be moved around and sacrificed, and they keep us in the dark about it.”

Grif stepped to the side quickly enough for Temple to let go of him.

“That’s what happens when you suck too much for the army. So where did you fail? Too much dramatic monologue instead of actually pulling the trigger-? _Ow_!” Temple was holding the flag again, having shoved it into his stomach to force him to take a step backwards. “Stop that,” Grif told him firmly, slapping the staff away.

Temple had backed him into a corner now. Grif could feel the wall against the back of his heels. It annoyed him more than anything – he was sure he could beat Temple in an actual fist fight. In fact, he wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t just punched him in the face yet. He probably should. But trapped in an underwater lair, surrounded by not so friendly strangers with guns, he probably shouldn’t go for a fight just yet.

“Do you understand now?” Temple asked him. The anger was gone from his voice. Still, the question was spoken firmly enough to demand an answer.

Grif didn’t want to understand. He didn’t want to say _‘sure, go ahead on a murder spree, I get it’_. He tried imagining himself in the same situation – and immediately stopped doing that because Simmons bleeding out in front of him was something that only belonged in his nightmares – and decided he wouldn’t have followed in Temple’s footsteps. He’d be hurt, and the scenario was awful, of course, but he wouldn’t kill people.

He had trouble enough pulling the trigger now. It felt… Sometimes it was hard to believe he’d once been picked as a Captain. He narrowed his eyes before lifting his head. “Sorry for the trauma and all that but he wasn’t my friend.”

Temple shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You could be him. You _are_ him – in some respects. You were sent to replace him, maybe she- Should life repeat itself, _you_ could easily end in his place.”

“I don’t plan on being shish-kebab,” he replied dryly. “’cause I don’t go around pissing off Freelancers.” He’d learned his lesson; numerous punches to the nuts did that to you.

“It wasn’t Biff’s fault,” Temple sneered back. “Agent Carolina forced him into the fray. He didn’t want to be here. We weren’t given a choice. They stripped us of that freedom. Why don’t you want to fight for it?”

Because he was _tired_. And pulling the trigger reminded him of too young soldiers falling over back on Chorus.  Because he didn’t like taking lives. Hard to choose an exact reason. Life sucked that way.

 Grif ended up shrugging. “I’m not a fighter. Not a fan of being shot at, or shooting in general. Really.”

Temple’s eyes hardened. “Then why are you here?”

“I’m a draftee. Now fuck off.” He took a step forward with enough aggression to make Temple back away. It gave him the freedom of finally escaping the corner of the darkened room. Not to mention Temple invading his personal space. “Gah, you’re creepy.”

“Ah. There it is.” Temple was smiling again. A new kind of smile – more satisfied than murderous now. Like he’d found a piece for a puzzle. “I don’t understand you, Grif. You’ve been thrown around in an _illegal_ system that ultimately wants you dead as cannon fodder. And you’re okay with it?” His tone was dripping with disbelief.

“’ _Okay’_ is kinda overdoing it. I don’t know. It sucks? But I don’t turn into a murderous maniac because of it.”

Temple’s eyes gleamed again. “I’m avenging my friend! My actions are noble – not murderous.”

Oh, it was impossible not to snort. “Yeah, say that to the corpses.”

“Which corpses?”

Right. While the Blues and Reds were assholes, they hadn’t exactly blown up people yet. It was a matter of time, though. At least now they just stuck with underwater architecture. But that didn’t really make up for what they had done (or, well, what they technically had already done. In some timeline). He straightened out his back as he tried to talk himself out of his mistake. “You want to kill the UNSC, right? For killing your buddy?”

“Yes.”

He kept his tone dry and continued with his argument, “By killing them.”

“Of course.”

“Because there is nothing wrong at all with that sort of mindset?”

“ _No_.”

Well, at least he’d tried. Not his fault that Temple’s brain was royally messed up. Grif pulled up his shoulders. “I’m just saying that if I got speared, I wouldn’t want my friends to go on a murder spree.”

He wasn’t quite sure his friends would even have gone so far, had Grif been killed. Back in Blood Gulch Sarge would probably just have thrown a party.

Maybe later they would actually have grieved, just a day or two. But nothing extreme. Simmons would probably have been a bit sad, hopefully.

But they wouldn’t have done anything crazy. He didn’t think so. But, well, they’d gone to the extreme to try to bring back Church. Stupid wild goose chase.

But that had been _Church_. Grif… It had been easy to leave Grif behind.

“I can see you certainly aren’t busy avenging your friends,” Temple noted coldly.

Right, his team had been wiped out. “Hey, that was different,” Grif said to his defense, which was stupid, really, because he knew he was a shitty friend. He’d let the others go on their dangerous mission alone. And they’d almost died because of that. He’d tried to make up for it later but he never really got to earn their forgiveness before he tripped and fucked up.

Temple’s voice turned almost gentle and sickly sympathetic as he said, “So they weren’t your friends? Oh, I see.”

“Screw you.” He didn’t have to listen to Temple telling him that. He had enough voices inside his head to remind him of the fact. Grif turned to leave. “You’re fucking insane, why do I even waste my time-“

“I hardly think _you_ are qualified to judge _my_ mental state.”

“I’m not crazy.”

Temple let out a short laughter, filled with pity. “Of course.”

Grif clenched his fists. He wasn’t-

He was aware things had gone a little out of hand on the moon. That volleyballs weren’t supposed to talk. And that you weren’t supposed to reply to them. And that you shouldn’t need talking volleyballs in the first place.

But it wasn’t his fault that silence _sucked_.

He tried to explain this to Temple but he couldn’t find the right words and in the end he decided Temple didn’t even deserve an explanation. It was better with an insult. As always. “Fuck you.”

Temple’s soft smiled remained. “You’re broken. Of course. Why else should they have thrown you away to be stuck with us? You’re of no use to them.”

“Are you insulting me or yourself here? I lost track.”

“Do you want to be useless?” Temple asked him, sharply, firmly. When Grif didn’t answer he continued, “You should consider being polite, for once, to me and my friends. We are, after all, the only ones left to care about you. Because the rest of the world won’t.”

And that might be fucking terrifyingly true. Grif knew he’d fucked up his relationship with the gang but they still counted as his friends (right?) but that didn’t help when he’d been send back in time. Not when they hadn’t showed up yet.

Grif might be insane but he hadn’t reached Temple’s level yet. “I’m not going to be a shitty villain.”

Temple let out an indulgent sigh. “Call it whatever you want. I prefer to think of it as a lonely journey towards justice.”

Grif knew how that journey would end.

He narrowed his eyes. “Have fun building your little club house, asshole.” His mind was set on leaving the cramped room as quickly as possible, so he didn’t bother to take a closer look at the other items Temple had stored down here. A flash of orange did catch his eyes as he turned around, and for a moment he thought it looked like the shape of a helmet, but he refused to think further about it.

He marched away, leaving Temple with his stupid flagpole.

It was hard to remember which path Temple had used before when he’d dragged him along. Grif walked down darkened hallways, turned a corner, and suddenly saw a glint of maroon armor. He turned his head, walking in the opposite direction of Gene.

He didn’t want to be near the Blues and Reds. He wanted to be left alone so he could think. Back on the moon, when it had still been populated, he’d been able to sneak into his cave when the others got too loud or when Sarge was in a special orange-hating mood. Before the moon there had been that abandoned corridor in the Rebel base. Back in Valhalla there had been that ledge on the canyon wall. There’d been a cave in Blood Gulch. On his colony he’d found the old locker room no one had bothered to check, not even when the aliens had arrived and…

The hallway ended here. The rest of it hadn’t been built. Grif sat down on a crate and smashed his head against the underwater window. At least he wasn’t thickheaded enough to break it. Some fish swam away in fear but no cracks appeared in the glass.

He turned his head to stare at his blurred reflection. Surprise, surprise, he looked just as shitty as he felt. The blue light didn’t help. Sarge must have hated this place. Grif certainly did.

Simmons had said that Temple hated the Freelancers. That he thought them all traitors because they were friends with them. But he hadn’t mentioned Biff. And he certainly hadn’t mentioned Carolina brutally killing him.

It was… He didn’t want it to be that easy to believe. Carolina was fucking terrifying, even now, but Grif knew she was more than just a bloodthirsty super soldier. He’d spent hours with her on the moon, talking about yoga postures and snack cakes and shitty dads and shitty puns. She was less scary out of armor, sometimes downright funny.

But he almost remembered her when she’d just shown up. How she had ordered them around, threatened them. He remembered her talking about the mistakes she’d made in the past. He remembered how Wash had acted after he’d snapped. While he hadn’t been there to witness it, Simmons had told him about Donut’s “death”. He remembered Agent Texas – and more importantly, the punches she had thrown.

Freelancers were dangerous. Not necessarily their fault, but still…

He didn’t _want_ to imagine Carolina getting a sim trooper killed in a meaningless fight. But it didn’t change the fact that he was in fact more than capable of seeing that scene in his head.

He absentmindedly reached up to rub the spot where Temple had fake-stabbed him. It felt like he’d used enough force to leave a mark.

“Goddamnit,” he muttered into the silence, not quite sure what else to say about the situation.

Eventually he forced his thoughts away from a flagpole buried in a bleeding torso, and instead he remembered the good days back in the moon, in the cellar of Blue Base where their band had been formed. Carolina had laughed in confidence before taking off her helmet, swinging her red pony-tail as she marched to the microphone and began to sing. Tucker had almost doubled over to try to keep himself from laughing. Simmons had dropped his jaw, turning slightly pale at the thought of telling the Freelancer the truth. And Grif had been staring at him, smiling because that had indeed been an amusing sight-

The light flickered twice before it turned completely off.

An inhale of air got stuck in Grif’s throat as he was left in darkness. The lair was silent now, too silent, with no distant echoes of drilling or hammering on metal.

They’d left.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit on fucking bloodstained stick.

He stumbled forward, trying to find his way in the dark and stumbling over an empty bucket. He swore, pulling himself off the ground and rushed back to where had come from.

It was difficult to navigate down here, especially when he didn’t even know his way around in the first place. The pressure seemed to be building in his head, making his ears ring, and his quickened breathing didn’t help.

But it was fine. _Fine_. He could just nap down here, waiting for them to return the next day. He’d be _fine_. He’d napped in worse places. Of course it wasn’t optimal that it was dark and creepy and the air was stuffed and it was so freaking quiet-

The softest source of red light could be seen in the distance, and Grif immediately headed for that room. When he came close enough he realized it came from the panel of the elevator. _Oh yes_.

He slammed against it, banging his fists against as the metal as he waited for it to open. It didn’t. “Aw, _fuck_.” Was Temple cruel enough to just leave him down here without saying anything? Grif sighed – of course Temple was cruel enough.

_Ding_.

He almost jumped in surprise when the elevator opened.

And his heart sank when he saw Temple standing in the middle of it, obviously waiting for him. Son-of-a-bitch had planned this.

The thought itself was enough to make Grif groan loudly before stepping inside. He didn’t do anything to acknowledge Temple’s presence as he placed himself right next to him. He looked at the panel, and Temple reached forward and pushed a button. The elevator began to move.

For a while none of them said anything, just staring straight ahead. The quick movement made Grif’s stomach lurch.

And then the awkward, heavy silence was broken by Temple saying, “I’m actually quite the forgiving person, Grif.”

He rolled his eyes. “Uhm, I thought we had just been discussing your plan to kill an entire agency. But I could have heard wrong.”

Temple briefly laughed in amusement before finally turning his head to look at Grif. “You’re still welcome on the team. But I won’t force you. You’ll have to ask.”

Well, if that kept Temple from bothering him Grif wouldn’t complain. “Cool,” he snorted.

“So if you plan on returning home with us, all you have to do is to give us a small apology.”

“You really don’t know me that well.”

The elevator came to a halt and the door opened. Grif stepped outside, inhaling deep breaths of fresh air. The sun was setting.

“So you are not coming along?” Temple asked him.

“No.”

Temple seemed surprised, and that was almost too satisfying. “Oh.”

“I quit,” Grif told him and then began to walk away from the canyon, leaving a stunned Temple behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, look, my Temple has two moods when around Grif: angry or possessive. Both are rather dangerous.
> 
> Confession: I loved all of Temple’s speeches. He’s so dramatic it’s amazing. Which makes him even funnier to write. I hope I get his self-rightness right.
> 
> Thanks a lot for all your wonderful reactions to the last chapter! Your support means so much!


	8. The Far Side of the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Loco thought of him as a hamster.

The cave was not as big as the one back on the moon, but it’d have to do. It was cooler inside, and the shadows were a pleasant relief. Grif slumped against the cave wall and sighed.

This brought back memories.

He remembered the first day after the others had left. He’d spent his time napping in his bed before it became too obvious how empty the bases were. It felt wrong. So eventually he’d curled up in the cave where he could pretend.

It should be easier this time. Right?

While they certainly looked like the role, the Blues and Reds were not the gang. He wouldn’t miss them. They certainly wouldn’t miss him.

This was for the best. Grif didn’t have to take Temple’s bullshit. He’d had enough of bullshit. Bullshit sucked.

So what if Carolina had killed one of their men? It wasn’t like Blood Gulch had been without fatalities. Hell, Church had died before they had even gotten to know him. Well, he came back. And then he’d died again and sorta come back and-

Well, now he was dead. So…

And Carolina had probably just killed Biff by accident. Present Carolina refrained from killing. The whole “ _we don’t kill people unless it’s absolutely necessary”_ had been said out loud since Church - or Epsilon or whatever – had died.

Besides, everyone had been a lot more bloodthirsty back then. Like, Sarge had shot him on a daily basis while in Blood Gulch. Simmons had threatened to kill him in his sleep every night before going to bed. But they had grown out of those habits. Things were different now. Grif couldn’t even remember the last time Sarge had let the shells actually hit him when he fired his shotgun at him.

Not that it mattered now. He hadn’t seen them for a while now, and chances were, well, not in his favor. He’d stop wondering because it never really brought him anything close to a comfort.

Temple’s actions weren’t justified. While Biff’s death was certainly unfair, it didn’t make the rest anything close to humane. Grif had experienced more unfairness than most, and he didn’t turn into a terrorist. He didn’t like the UNSC. Deep inside, he probably hated them.

He’d been drafted. He never asked to be a part of any stupid war. They were the ones who’d placed him on that lonely planet, calling his service necessary, and then they hadn’t stepped in until four weeks after he’d called for help. The planet had been dead by then. He’d had the time to bury all his former teammates.

He’d thought, after the prescribed therapist had ravaged his brain and called him traumatized and given him his fine blue pills, that it’d be the end of it. He’d promised Kai he’d be home before winter. He’d said he’d be so bad they would be forced to kick him out.

He’d counted on them sending him home on medical leave.

They sent him to a surgeon instead, and when they were done he had fancy small implants in the back of his head and a new base in an isolated gulch. He’d stopped believing he’d get any answers back them.

But even after all that bullshit, he’d never asked for anything more than being sent home. Sure, he hadn’t been rewarded that, and it didn’t exactly help on the bitterness, but Grif was never going to kill anyone for such revenge…

Not even now. Not even with Temple pressuring him.

He wouldn’t get that from Grif, not when he’d spent his life denying such passion to everyone else.

He’d stay here, in his cave, and he’d be fine.

He’d done it before.

* * *

Darkness came quickly in Desert Gulch, and the nights were surprisingly cold. Grif hadn’t really expected that from a desert. It was pleasant at first, better than sweating buckets – not that sweat had ever bothered him that much before, but Simmons had always hated when he was smelling like that.

While he could deal with the cold, the darkness inside the cave was slowly getting on his nerves. He barely dared to move in fear of slamming his head against the cave wall – again.

He wished he’d brought snacks. To be fair, he always wished he’d brought snacks, and even if he did have snacks, he’d always regret not bringing more.

There was really nothing left to do but sleep.

Good thing Grif liked that solution.

When he awoke the sun was up, the light just reaching his spot inside the cave. He rolled over, grunting, and came to the conclusion he preferred Sarge’s wake up alarm – a shotgun to the face. Even Simmons’ morning bitching was to be preferred. It was better than this deafening silence.

It probably took him hours to sit up. That was what it felt like. But it wasn’t really like he was in a hurry or anything. He had nothing on his schedule. Temple and the others could go build their stupid lair themselves.

Really should have brought those snacks though… He shifted slightly, trying to remember if he’d seen a lake anywhere close. He doubted it. It was _Desert_ Gulch after all. It should leave a hint about the heat and lack of water and, well, lack of everything but sand.

Then again; he’d lived in Blood Gulch, and it wasn’t like the place had been filled with blood. There’d been some accidents, sure, but the canyon never turned red enough to satisfy Sarge.

Maybe he could at least find some strange mushrooms to soothe his hunger a little, or at least make him feel less like shit. But back when they had attacked the Blues and Reds he’d decided to eat all of them ‘cause it’d give him a better chance of proving himself, but now it just seemed like a really bad choice.

But he could deal with that. He wasn’t desperate enough to get up just yet. Not when he still had time to nap.

Well, that was until he began to hear the voice.

_ “Really fucked that up, didn’t you?” _

“Shut up, Simmons,” he replied and smacked the back of his head against the cave wall on purpose. Maybe if he got it to ache enough, the voices would leave it.

_ “Didn’t shock anyone, though. I’m just surprised you haven’t managed to get yourself killed yet. Or why they haven’t killed you yet, from sheer annoyance.” _

“Well, Surge has threatened to shoot me.”

_ “Of course he has. ‘cause you suck.” _

“Hey, I’m the one who travelled back in time. I bet you’re full of jealousy right now, your nerdy ass is all green. I get to defy the rules of logic and you didn’t.”

_ “At least I don’t have to put up with your smell now.” _

“I guess.”

_ “’cause you smell. And it stinks.” _

“Yeah.” Grif sighed. “Yeah.” His stomach then decided to try to imitate a growling lion. He put his hands on top of it in an attempt to soothe it.

_ “I’m surprised you didn’t cause an earthquake.” _

“I’m hungry.”

_ “At least this way you’re getting rid of some of that fat.” _

“Not like you can see it.”

_ “You’re pathetic.” _

“I miss you, you fuck.”

The voice disappeared after that. Grif sat in silence, weighing his options. He couldn’t find a lasting solution, at least not once that didn’t require the help of others.

But Grif had spent a lot of evenings watching sci-fi movies with Simmons (and it felt like such a long time ago now) and more than a few of them had involved time travelling. It had given him a few ideas.

He still had to wait, but he’d been doing that for too long now. Time to actively try to get rescued.

It was bright enough for him to scramble around on the ground to pick up several small rocks. The third one proved sharp enough to do the job.

He considered writing it in the cave wall but he knew the chances of the others finding it here would be slim. If the others actually tried to track him down, they would look in the middle of the gulch. Where the portal had appeared.

Hopefully Simmons remembered their sci-fi nights as well.

When he stumbled out of the cave, he doubled over slightly, vision swimming in front of his eyes.

He saw an aqua color and froze. When his eyes finally worked properly again, he realized it was Buckey walking towards the secret entrance with his arms full of tools. Luckily he didn’t seem to notice him but instead entered the elevator without slowing down.

When he was gone, Grif dared to continue his way into the canyon. So the others were already busy with today’s work. Well, not that Grif would have helped them, even if he was forced down there with them.

It was weird to walk in the middle of a quiet gulch. For a moment he wondered if this was how Kai had felt when they had all been forced to leave…

But he quickly brushed that thought away. He didn’t want to think about Kai. Not now, when there was nothing he could do. Not thinking too hard about it had been his strategy ever since he had been forced to leave her.

Right now the silence was more uncanny than comforting.

“Just gotta go graffiti some shit,” Grif said out loud to fill the quiet, “Don’t mind me.”

No one did. Well, there was no one there to truly be bothered by his presence.

“Just around here,” he said, trying to find his way back to _his spot_. It had been some days since he had been on the lookout for the portal. “Fucking sand grains all look the same. Stupid sand.”

But it was rather easy to find the spot today, since someone had left a present.

“Huh.” Grif picked up the note saying:

 _For ~~Biff~~_  
_~~Not-Biff~~ _  
~~_Grif_ ~~  
_Grif+f_

It was obviously from Loco, seeing how it had taken him four times to get the name (sorta) right. But Grif appreciated it once had found the supplies underneath. Two waters bottles, a snack bar and a package of sawdust. Maybe Loco thought of him as a hamster. Who knew?

While he chewed on the bar, he frowned and debated whether or not his plan would work. It was not that great that Loco knew of the place. Grif preferred no one but his friends saw the message.

But it was _Loco_. Grif could convince the guy of anything. He shouldn’t worry.

Once he had licked off the last piece of chocolate from his finger, he picked up the sharp rock he’d brought along. He found the nearest surface, a boulder he had used to nap against.

It took time to carve the marking. They had to be deep, after all, to last for the others to find them in the future.

He should probably be more specific, or at least try to be somewhat helpful, but he truly didn’t know what to tell them. He only knew two very important facts: he was here and the others needed to get him back to the future.

He was first finished in the evening.

 _Dear dickheads_  
_Hurry the fuck up_  
_I’m here_  
_It sucks_

He would have used names but if the Blues and Reds should find it, it was better not give away something that could cause problems later on. This was the best he could come up with.

_ “Not very good then.” _

“Shut up, Simmons,” he muttered back and looked at the rock he was holding with his sore fingers. It wasn’t exactly a volleyball but he could already feel his mind trying to imagine the maroon color.

Desert Gulch was driving him insane that quickly, huh.

He knew Simmons wasn’t here. That was his entire problem. Simmons wasn’t here, and this time Grif wouldn’t be picked up by a guilt-tripping mercenary.

But when it was this was quiet it was so easy for the voices to find him again and-

“Blasphemy! Taint!”

“Hey, Surge, we aren’t really happy about the either but you don’t hear us yelling about it.”

“SORRY, I DIDN’T HEAR YOU! I got distracted again.”

“Shut up, Loco.”

Grif slowly turned his head to see a group of colorful soldiers, both Reds and Blues, walking towards Red Base. They must be finished with work for today. And for some reason the Blues were going with the Reds? At least it seemed so, though he couldn’t see Temple among the others.

The sound of the voices was enough for him to take a step forward.

_ “Are you really that pathetic?” _

“Shut up, you’re the ones being lazy and late for once. Is it all just Sarge’s idea to torture me?”

_ “I was right. You didn’t even last a day.” _

“Hey, it _sucks,_ okay.”

_ “You don’t have a spine to support all that fat.” _

“You’re not here.”

_ “And do you wonder why?” _

Grif set his jaw. Like a moth drawn to a flame, he started marching towards Red Base where the yelling could still be heard. Apparently the Blues were forbidden to touch the furniture, according to Surge.

They fell quiet when he stepped inside.

Grif knew he was going to ruin the mood but he hadn’t expected to act this badly. They didn’t even look at him. Instead they were all suddenly very focused on the dinner they were eating, looking at their plate instead of staring at the visitor.

 “’sup?” Grif asked, trying to act casual, like he belonged here. Which he didn’t.

No one answered him.

Grif rolled his eyes. “Bad day?” he snorted.

Buckey narrowed his eyes but still didn’t look in his direction. “Hey, Loco, I think you forgot to close the door. The wind is so loud in here.”

“No. No, the door is closed,” Loco said after another glance to be sure.

“Oh, this is fun,” Grif said, realizing what they were trying to accomplish. Deciding not to comment further on it, he went straight for the fridge, only to be blocked by Gene who suddenly stepped in front of him to open it instead.

He tried to move around the maroon soldier, but Gene kept maneuvering himself to effectively block his way to the shelves. “Hey, Surge, did you need the ketchup?”

“Only the red one.”

“…Is there another one?”

“The yellow one,” Loco added helpfully.

“That’s mustard.” Gene took what he needed and slammed the fridge door shut right in front of Grif’s face. As he turned to walk to Surge, he made a certain point of not glancing in Grif’s direction. Not even when Grif stretched out a leg in the attempt to make him fall.

It annoyed him they couldn’t just do it right. When Grif went out of his way to annoy someone, they could at least acknowledge it with insults or threats or a bullet in his direction.

The others never did _this_.

Grif clenched his fists. “Wow, this is real mature.” He kept trying to catch the visor of someone, but they all avoided him like the plague, even Cronut who at least seemed uncomfortable in the situation, keeping his head lowered. “What’s next – you gonna say your dad is stronger than mine?”

_ “Which dad?” _

Great now Simmons (or, well, not Simmons; he knew Simmons wasn’t there. It was just his stupid voice inside his thick skull because he was getting lonely again and, god fucking damnit, he’d thought he had this under control) was mocking his dysfunctional family. Low move, not-Simmons.

But no one said anything, and that left the voice free to tell him whatever it wanted.

Grif narrowed his eyes.

“Uhm, my dad was indeed very strong. He was a wolf,” Loco then said, breaking the thick silence.

“Loco, remember what Temple said about talking to cowardly, pee-yellow backstabbers?” Buckey asked loudly from the corner.

Loco let his head hang. “Oh,” he said and walked away to sit next to his teammate.

Grif stared at them, shifting the weight on his feet. “I’m not yellow.” He waited for someone to disagree. “I’m orange,” he then had to clarify, still waiting for one of them to object. They didn’t. “You wouldn’t even know yellow, ‘cause you haven’t seen yellow, ‘cause that’s _unique_ and you guys don’t deserve that, you don’t, and I bet Loco has a whole bunch of crayons you can look at and see that I’m not orange, I’m not, and you guys know it, you’re just being assholes. Assholes.”

He had to stop to inhale air into his lungs, and so he did, staring at them, waiting.

Then Surge huffed, “Blue, go close that darn door. The wind is violating my ears.”

“No, it’s still closed,” Loco replied in a hushed voice.

That was not how people should react to insults. They should mock him back. Sputter and call him useless or tell him how much he sucked. That was how it worked.

That was how it worked with the Reds and Blues. You talked shit, and people talked shit about you, and insults would fly through the air, but that was just how they acknowledged each other.

They didn’t do this sort of shit.

_ “Missing our insults now?” _

“Shut up,” Grif said to himself before walked out of the base.

* * *

“You have _one_ visitor,” a voice came from the ceiling.

Grif instinctively ducked. “What the fuck?”

“Thank you, Shelly.” Temple appeared from around a corner, and he calmly placed himself in front of Grif. His arms were crossed. Smug bastard.

Grif sighed and prepared to lose his dignity. Well, it wasn’t really like he had much left. He was pretty sure he’d lost it back in Blood Gulch when Sarge had made him tell the Blues that he was a girl who liked ribbons in his hair and wanted to kiss all the boys.

Besides, he wanted two things; his sanity and food. And if that meant smooth-talking Temple for a moment, then Grif would make that sacrifice.

“So,” he began, “I’m an ass. Pretty obvious you’re an ass too. And that this whole place is filled with asses. _But_ I don’t want to starve to death because that is obviously the worst way to die. So I admit - not easily, so respect my sacrifice – that I was a bit rude. So. Sorry. I guess.”

Temple tilted his head. “Shelly, did you record this?”

“Yes. Do you want me to play the recording?”

“No, let’s save that for a rainy day.”

“You asshole,” Grif said, glancing from Temple to the ceiling. He hated them both right now.

Temple laughed. “You know what they say; swallow your humility.”

“…Is that really something people say?”

“I am so glad to see that you’ve changed your mind, Grif,” Temple said to change subject. “Work just wasn’t the same without your constant source of negativity.”

“Good to know I was missed.”

“Dearly.” Temple removed his helmet to show a smile accompanied by two narrowed eyes. “Tell me, are you hungry? Oh, well, of course you are. Do you like fish?”

Food was food. “Sure.” Dinner and the Simmons voice was gone – things were already going his way. And it hadn’t cost him that much. It wasn’t like he’d signed a contract or anything. He was going to amuse Temple, not work for him.

Temple led him deeper inside the base where a plate was indeed waiting for him, filled with grilled fish and some sort of beans. Holy fuck, he’d been planning this.

“Oh my god, you’ve had a lot of time to prepare your creepiness.”

Bastard had figured out how to drive him to apologize, and he’d even figured out how little time it would require. Grif would be impressed by this level of manipulation but he was simply too stunned.

“I figured you would appreciate it.” Temple went to a nearby shelf where he carefully picked up what looked like a black box. He blew off a layer of dust before setting it on the table Grif was sitting at. “But here is my important question, Grif: do you know how to play chess?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise we will get to see what the others are up to soon. Very soon. I've planned the next ten chapters very carefully, so that should make them easier to write. This story is gonna be long.
> 
> Thank you for the support!


	9. Bad Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons finds something.

“Simmons.”

“So if we connect the black wire with the… other black wire?”

“Simmons.”

“Does… does anybody have a screwdriver?”

“ _Simmons.”_

When his name was said once again, even more firmly this time, he finally pulled himself out from under the machine. He looked directly into Dylan’s visor who was looking down at him. “ _What_?!” he said, not caring if it sounded like he was snapping at her. He probably was. But to be fair, he had quite the reason to be in a bad mood.

Dylan offered him a hand to help him stand up again. “We can’t rush into this,” she told him, let her touch on his shoulder linger as a sort of comfort.

 “We can’t-“ Simmons’ jaw dropped, and he couldn’t quite find the strength to repeat her words. “What?!”

“We came here to stop the machine from being started, remember?”

“That was before-!”

“I know.” She sighed deeply. “I know, but, listen, we don’t understand how this thing works. And if we were right about the consequences…”

Tucker, who had been pacing back and forth in the background, stepped forward to join their conversation. “It didn’t destroy the world before!” he said, and Simmons, despite all that had happened in the last three weeks, felt an urge to throw his arms around him and thank him.

“It didn’t reach maximum power,” Dylan continued to argue, and the facts were there, hard and cold and unforgiving.

Simmons clenched his fists. “So what are you saying?”

“We need to stabilize it.”

Simmons turned away from her to face the burned out machine again. “We need to get it to work,” he said and kicked it. Probably not the smartest idea, seeing how he was trying to bring it back to life, but if the stupid piece of shit would just cooperate once he wouldn’t feel like kicking the shit out of it. He slammed his palms against the control panel. “So what if Earth is destroyed… Honestly, with the current climate problems, we all knew it was gonna happen eventually…”

“Simmons.”

“There are other planets out there…”

“ _Simmons_.”

“We are not leaving him behind!” he finally yelled, for the first time, maybe a bit too late.

Carolina pushed herself up from the wall she had been resting against. “We are not saying that,” she said firmly, as she limped her towards them.

Sarge and Donut had been listening in the background after having finished rounding up all the alive but unconscious enemies, but now Sarge cleared his throat. “Red Team does have an odd habit of fixing broken machinery. Someone, give me a screwdriver and a pair of smooth latex gloves.”

“This isn’t a robot.”

“We can all see that, Tucker!” Simmons snarled and pushed the big red button again. It hadn’t worked the five thousand other times he’d tried, but maybe now he’d be lucky. Right. The screen remained black.

Tucker raised his hands in defense. “I’m just saying you guys are the robot experts. Not the normal kind of weird tinkering. Can’t we get Lopez?”

“Lopez is a head, Tucker! He can’t fix the time machine if he doesn’t have any hands! And we can’t ask Temple how it works because _you_ thought it was a good idea to knock him out!” Simmons threw an angry glance towards the corner of the room where Temple was lying in a tangled, cobalt heap. It wasn’t like he didn’t think he’d deserved the punch – Simmons just wished he’d stayed conscious so they could punch him again and ask how the fuck they could get Grif back.

“I was angry, okay! And it wasn’t like he even knew how it worked! Loco made it, which means it’s probably so stupid it defies logic.”

Simmons widened his eyes behind his visor. “Loco-“

“-is dead, dude,” Tucker said, pointing at the body with a thumb.

“Caboose,” Simmons suddenly said. His mouth felt dry. He turned his head rapidly until he finally spotted the Blue soldier in the corner. “Caboose, come here.”

He followed orders immediately, and tore his attention away from Loco’s body to walk over to his friends. “Yes?”

“You’re stupid,” Simmons said, voice betraying him by showing just how desperate he felt.

“That’s not nice.”

“No, it’s perfect. You are stupid enough to figure this thing out. Here.” He shoved the screwdriver into Caboose’s hands. “Please fix it.”

Tucker shifted next to them. “I don’t think that-“

“Please,” he said again while looking at Caboose. This had to be it, this had to work, because Simmons _couldn’t do anything_ but Caboose might. He’d fixed Church. And Freckles. He was good at this, he could do this.

“I’m gonna fix it,” Caboose said gravely, and his serious tone was like a comforting shoulder pat to Simmons. The Blue inhaled deeply before revealing, “I have extra batteries.” Then he crouched to look at one of the open panels that Simmons had already managed to partly mutilate.

“Just know that there’s a 40 percent of something blowing up when Caboose is holding a screwdriver,” Tucker pointed out with a shrug but didn’t argue any further. Simmons could live with that.

Donut, who had remarkably quiet so far, came to stand next to Simmons as they watched the Blue work. “At least we know Grif is good at finding his way back to us,” he told him comfortingly, and Simmons sniffed.

* * *

“We need to call for backup.”

Simmons spun around to face Dylan, even though she couldn’t see the frown she had caused. “Why?! We are making progress!”

A small explosion sounded behind them, and Simmons could not help but flinch even though it was the third time within the last hour. Caboose’s voice called out a moment later, “That was on purpose!” The soot on his visor said otherwise.

Dylan inhaled softly before turning her attention on Simmons again. “People are bound to come to investigate what happened here. I don’t want the UNSC arresting you guys before they will let me show them the proof of your innocence.”

That would be bad. Not only because Simmons hated cramped spaces or that he preferred not to have his reputation ruined, but because they needed to be free in order to help Grif. He had to be here to work on the machine… The machine that was unlike anything the world had seen before and probably very, very dangerous…

Simmons’ polymer gut twisted painfully. “They will confiscate the machine,” he said, lips numb.

“Yes.”

Simmons swallowed and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Dylan had left him to discuss something with Sarge and Donut in the other end of the room. Simmons walked back to the enormous machine, knocking softly on the metal to alert Caboose of his presence. He’d managed to scare him by accident twice before, causing the Blue to slam his head against the machine and a concussed Caboose was the last thing they needed right now.

“Hey, Caboose, buddy, I know you are working really hard but do you think you can work a bit faster?”

Caboose, sitting in the darkness while trying not to get tangled into the wires, nodded eagerly and continued to work on the panel with a blowtorch. Simmons crossed his fingers behind his back.

“How do we even know where to find him?”

Simmons turned his head to see Tucker shrugging. “What?” he asked the Blue and raised his shoulders into a defensive stance.

“The portal,” Tucker said, “It can go everywhere at any time, right? How do we know where he is?”

While it had only existed for a brief moment, Simmons remembered the portal Grif had disappeared into in full details. “Desert Gulch,” he told him, “I saw sand, it gotta be.”

“Could be fucking Sahara.”

“It has to work, Tucker!”

“It’s sparkling!”

Usually it was Donut who could comment on sparkling stuff, but now it was Caboose who was yelling loudly. He crawled out from the space between the machine parts just as the screen come to life again. Several sparks appeared from the torn wires that swung around wildly, and the loud humming was back again.

Simmons felt like crying in relief.

“Uhm, is it supposed to do that?” Doc asked as the light continued to grow brighter and brighter.

While most of the persons in the room (those conscious at least) began to move closer to the machine, Jax started to back away. “I’m just gonna go prepare a good shot… Has to be a crime not to record the ending of the world, right?”

Carolina walked over to stand next to Simmons. Turning her head, she began to say softly, “We can’t-“

Simmons never let her finish, but instead rushed to the control panel and began to push all the buttons he could reach. “C’mon, c’mon.”

“Holy crap,” Tucker breathed out.

“It’s working!” Without thinking further about it, Simmons threw his arms around to startled Caboose. “Thank you!”

A brief moment later the Blue hugged him back, tightly, and Simmons let out a panicked sound when he felt some of his ribs starting to bend under the weight. With a small apology he managed to wriggle himself out of Caboose’s hold.

“Doesn’t look that stable,” Jax said nervously from a distance. He still hadn’t left the room.

“What’s the plan?” Carolina asked. She’d rested a bit while they worked on the machine, but there was no denying that she would not be able to fully help them.

But she didn’t need to.

“I go in,” Simmons said firmly, and no one argued against that.

“You have to hurry,” Dylan told him. “You remember how brief the first portal was. There’s no guaranteeing how long we can keep this one open.”

“Just in and out, Simmons,” Donut said cheerfully. “You can do it!”

Simmons nodded.

“Sandbox!” Caboose exclaimed when the portal finally appeared, long a tear in the reality right before their eyes. And he was right – when they looked into the tear they saw sand…

“Go, go, go, go!” Tucker yelled, and Simmons didn’t hesitate.

He jumped right in.

“Grif!” he yelled before having even glanced around. “Griiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiif!” He started running by instinct. “Hey, fatass, I’m here, I’m-!”

Then he fell quiet, realizing just where he was.

He’d been right. This was Desert Gulch. And it was eerily quiet.

“Grif?”

No one replied. Simmons started to slowly walk forward, stunned. The sand crackled under his boots. Tall boulders were blocking his view of the bases he knew was there, and he started to move past them, looking for any signs of life.

He stopped dead in his track when he noticed the rock that looked like it had been used by a firing squad. The entire surface was jagged and burned after too many gunshots. Simmons turned his head and saw that none of the nearby boulders wore such markings.

Someone had fired at this rock, and they had definitely emptied their magazine before stopping… Memories of facing a firing squad, all with their finger on the trigger, flashed before Simmons’ eyes. He felt sick, almost more panicked than what he’d felt back then.

“Grif?”

Then he started running until he had both bases within view, and he halted, wondering where to go, Red Base or Blue Base… Where would they keep prisoners…? Or was it all color divided? Grif was a Red. _Grif was a Red_ …

“Grif!”

“Simmons!” someone yelled, but it wasn’t Grif – it was the others on the other side of the portal, Carolina’s voice…

But Simmons didn’t stop running. “Grif!” Not before he tripped, twisting his ankle, and he fell face-forward into the sand that proved to be less soft than expected. He held out his hands to support himself during the fall, and his fingers dug into the sand until they brushed against something hard.

Simmons froze briefly before he began to dig. He only had to remove some layers of sand before he could see the orange color.

A few moments he’d freed the abandoned helmet and he cradled it gently in his hands. “Grif.”

He inhaled sharply before sprinting back to towards the portal so he could let them know. “He’s here!” he yelled. “He’s got be, just let me-“

There were voices in the distance. Faint voices. Simmons turned around and began to run.

The others called out behind him.

“Fuck!”

“Tucker!”

“Simmons!”

“Grif!” Simmons yelled and he ran, trying to catch a glimpse of them.

A hand closed around his upper arm, and he was forced backwards with enough force that it would have thrown out his shoulder had it not been his cyborg side. “What the- Let go!”

“It’s closing!”

“I don’t care, lemme-“

Tucker kept pulling him backwards, boots scrambling against the sand without finding a proper footing.

“Tucker, hurry!”

“No!”

A red set of armored hands grabbed his other arm, and Simmons almost lost the grip on the helmet before they all stumbled through the portal.

The light was blinding.

Then it was over.

Simmons' breathing was unsteady as he stared at the smoking machine. “Why did you do that?!” he yelled, trying to find Tucker but there were so many people surrounding him.

“It was shutting down, Simmons,” Dylan told him before turning her head to look at Jax. “How’s the Earth looking?”

“Still pretty gloomy and grim but the doomsday clouds have disappeared.”

“It worked!” Simmons held up the helmet, making sure everyone in the room could see it. It was scratched and worn and a part of the visor was broken, but it was orange and undeniably Grif’s. “It was the right place, he- We have to go back!”

“Son,” Sarge said. That one word made Simmons’ shoulders sink.

“I need more batteries,” Caboose said sadly. The machine was quiet again, dark again, but it was smoking this time, and a bitter smell filled the room.

Simmons breathed in deeply. “Okay. Okay. We go back and find more-“

“The backup should be here soon,” Dylan let him know. Her tone was soft again, like before. “You guys need to leave so we can be sure they arrest the right simulation troopers.”

“But the machine…” Simmons said, voice wavering. They would take it. The UNSC would deem it unsafe, like they had done with the storage unit. It would be confiscated and kept away, and Simmons would never get to fix it…

“Red Team has called dibs,” Sarge announced proudly. “Next time we just bring a fire extinguisher. And Lopez. Nothing he can’t fix. We’ve been sure to keep his skills well-practiced, ready for the job!”

No one said anything.

Simmons watched them all lower their heads and he gulped. His throat hurt. “Fuck.” He kicked the machine again, more force this time. He could see small flames in a core in deeper part of the machinery. “ _He was there_. You shouldn’t have-“

“We are too many men down on this team already,” Tucker said, almost quietly. He was not looking at Simmons any longer. “Just figured you’d be more help trying to get him back than being stuck-“

“I would have-“

“We don’t even know if…” Tucker trailed off and he lowered his head, looking at the orange helmet in Simmons’ hands.

Simmons shook his head. That would be too unfair. They hadn’t gotten Grif back. He’d just returned and now he was gone again. Gone before Simmons could tell him that he wasn’t mad and that he’d forgiven him and he understood _why_ he had stayed back then. Gone before he could have a proper welcome. Gone before Tucker could tell him he’d been wrong and that Grif had not been selfish-

Simmons turned away from him, looking at the machine, watching the smoke rise in a dark cloud. His eyes were stinging.

“Uhm, backup is here!” Donut’s voice seemed to echo in the now quiet room. “And there’s a surprise…” He might have tried to sound cheerful, as always, but he failed miserably. Something was wrong.

Simmons turned around to see Kaikaina Grif enter the room.

She froze, looking at the helmet in his hands.

“Where the fuck is Big Bro?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nope. Things are still depressive as fuck because I am the writer and I’m mean. But who can say how it’ll all end?
> 
> Also, thank you so much for all your support to this story! Your comments mean so much to me, and it really keeps me invested in this story (which has proven to be much longer than first expected. The journey is far from over, guys!)


	10. Pawns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temple is a nerd.

“You have never played chess before?” Temple asked. He sounded surprised but not unpleasantly shocked.

Grif shrugged and focused on the food in front of him. That was more important than Temple’s sudden boredom.

As he chewed on a bite of fish - a bit bland taste but it made him realize just how hungry he had been -  he remembered Simmons once offering to teach him how to play chess. It had been back in Blood Gulch, when their bunks had been facing each other.

There’d been a machine in the board, some sort of fancy tech that Simmons had invested in during high school so he could practice with himself. He’d once again been forced to play against the computer when Grif had called him a nerd and said that he only played poker.

Now, with Temple pressuring him, Grif wished he’d just let Simmons explain his nerd stuff back then so he didn’t have to listen to Temple talk about it.

Temple took his time to carefully prepare the board on the table. “This is a pawn and-“

“I’m not playing,” Grif said, mouth full. It was nice to eat a real meal instead of just granola bars, and he eyed the kitchen in the background to see if there was more food prepared. He was ready to eat all the supplies in the base, just to weaken the enemies and all that.

Yeah, that could be the way Grif would defeat the enemy. Starve them to death by eating their food. It sounded like the only way he could save the day.

Temple raised an eyebrow. “And why not?”

“I’m eating.”

“Which gives me plenty of time to explain the rules while you finish.”

Grif swallowed. He’d eaten a lot of fish back in Hawaii, but they’d always been covered in spices that made his tongue tingle. He missed that. All meals in the army were tasteless. It had to be a rule or some shit. A way to torture the recruits.

The fish now was just bland. Not bad enough for him to complain, though. “Why the fuck should I play?”

“Humor me.”

“Sure,” Grif snorted. “Knock-knock jokes or exotic dancing?”

“Now you’re just tempting me,” Temple said, rolling his eyes.

Grif set his jaw, unpleasantly surprised that Temple apparently had a sense of humor. “Look, I’m not playing your stupid, nerdy game.”

“It’s not-“ Temple inhaled sharply. “It’s _not_ nerdy.”

“Wow, did I hit a nerve?” Fucking finally. “What, were you stuck on your high school’s chess team?”

Temple didn’t answer, just moved slightly in his seat, and oh this was too good. “Oh my god, you totally were. Let me guess: you couldn’t get into _any_ of the sport teams?”

“Chess is a sport.”

“Holy shit, you are a nerd.”

“You-“

“ _Nerd_ ,” Grif said but then fell quiet when the word left a bitter taste in his mouth. It didn’t feel right. Or maybe the fish was just not that fresh. It did feel rather mushy. “Well, whatever, the only thing I bother to play is poker if the stakes are high enough.”

He wasn’t like mom who had wasted too much of their money on gambling, but he’d spent some fun night with teammates back in Basic and the colony where he’d earned some extra cash and MREs. Plus it helped he had a quick hand to change his cards if he felt like it.

“We can involve some stakes, as you call them, if you prefer. I have nothing against making things more exciting,” Temple said and emptied a bag filled with old pieces into his palm.

As if chess was exciting in the first place.

“Yeah,” Grif said, after filling his mouth with another bite of bitter fish, “then what would I win?”

“Anything.”

“Anything?”

“ _Anything_.”

Grif swallowed. “You’re pretty full of yourself.”

“Well, I don’t lose.”

“So if I asked for twenty cheese burgers…?”

Temple rolled his eyes, but answered nonetheless, “I would find them for you.”

“Hawaiian pizza? As in pizza made from my fav place in Honolulu – not the gross mistreatment of pineapple that some people dare to call acceptable.”

Having placed all the pieces on the board, Temple laughed softly, “Oh the old pineapple argument.”

“What – you disagree with me?”

“No, I share your opinion.” He paused for a moment, considering. “…But Biff was a fan of your so-called pineapple mistreatment.”

Grif didn’t know what to say to that, though it was slightly comforting that his counterpart had apparently not been a complete clone, so he changed subject. “But, really, _any-fucking-thing_?”

“Yes.”

“So making me king of the canyon? Ooh, or you letting all the others know you’re a girl and you like ribbons in your hair and you want to kiss all the boys?”

“What?”

“ _Or_ ,” Grif continued thoughtfully, “making you kiss the feet of the UNSC top boss? Whoever the fuck that is.”

Temple narrowed his eyes. “Yes. You can wish for anything you want because you are not going to win.”

“…So you’re cheating at this game?”

“I don’t lose,” Temple proclaimed a bit too proudly.

“So you’re admitting to be a chess nerd?”

“I won some competitions, yes.”

“I’m sure all the girls just crowded around you,” Grif snorted and sniffed the beans on his plate. Vegetables had never been his favorite, especially not anything brown, but hunger was always a good motivator. He put some in his mouth and decided it was not that bad. At least they were warm. “So if I get _anything_ – what do you want?”

“Another game,” Temple said with a shrug, “the day after. I admit I’ve missed my daily round of chess.”

“Why not build a computer? Or play with your ceiling?”

Temple shrugged. “I prefer to challenge people.”

Grif could almost hear an offended huff coming from the ceiling. But it was so faint, it was probably just his imagination. He did hear a lot of voices, after all.

He had a feeling about who Temple used to play with, but he didn’t ask. Instead he said, “So… I win I get anything, you win and I get a rematch?”

“Exactly.”

“…Are you expecting me not to ask what the catch is or…?” Grif said and continued to eat. Temple hadn’t commented on him eating with his mouth open yet. That was strange. Simmons always bitched about it…

“No catch.”

“ _Right_.”

“Why should I try to trick you?” Temple asked oh so innocently and twirled a larger chess piece around in his palm. It had sharp edges at the top.

Grif would have laughed but he didn’t want to die choking on fish. “’cause we hate each other?”

“I don’t hate you,” Temple replied. “I find you mentally unstable and an annoying distraction, not to mention your rudeness and unwillingness to cooperate, but I suppose we all have flaws. Some more than others. I suppose you hate me?”

“Yep.”

“And everyone in the canyon?”

“Pretty much.”

Temple pursed his lips. “Well, it’s good to know where we both stand. So. A game?”

Grif wanted _anything_. Needed it. He probably wouldn’t get it, since there was no way Temple would keep his word. But he didn’t want to leave – not while his plate was still filled with food and the other base cramped with six other assholes.

He didn’t reply, but Temple apparently took it as a positive answer.

“Okay,” he said and held up a piece with a round head. “This is a pawn. As you can see, there are a lot of them. They are quite limited in their movements – one step forward. Always moving forward. They’re known for being the weakest piece. Expandable. No one will shed a tear for a lost pawn.”

Temple looked up at him, and there was a certain look in his eyes, excited or mad or a mix between them both. Grif found himself leaning backwards in his seat.

“But,” Temple continued, still holding the black piece tightly, “you see, and this is important, _pawns can kill kings_.” He was hissing the words at this point. “All it requires is some strategical thinking and patience. Then you can outnumber the king, corner the king and _then they kill it_.”

He slammed the pawn against the king to prove his point, and he used enough force to make the bigger piece fly off the board and across the room.

Grif turned his head to see it smack against the wall and fall to the floor with a clink.

“Uhm, I’m not picking that up.”

* * *

Chess was complicated. Apparently, you couldn’t just move any piece the way you wanted, and some pieces were just confused and couldn’t even go straight, and Grif had no idea what the fuck was going on with the knights. Were the horses drunk or something?

Temple was always there to make a disagreeing sound or tsk at him or just look really unimpressed with whatever move Grif tried to make. It was more than just annoying, and Grif wished Temple would wear his stupid helmet so he didn’t have to look at his even stupider smug expression.

And now Grif didn’t even have his food to distract himself with. He glared longingly at the empty plate.

“I’m glad you liked it,” Temple said from the other end of the table. “It requires some imagination from Cronut to keep the dishes somewhat appetizing after all this time. I’m afraid we don’t have any leftovers.”

“What about your dish?” Grif pushed on because, hey, he had lived on granola bars for too long, and who knew if Temple was going to use starvation against him next time Grif told him the truth? He should eat all he could now to be prepared.

“I ate before you decided to show up.”

“Before you sent the others away,” Grif concluded and tried not to look that disappointed. It would have been satisfying to steal Temple’s food.

Temple raised an eyebrow when he looked up from to board to stare at him. “I suppose you talked with them?”

“Yeah,” Grif snorted, “we _‘talked’_.”

“It’s your turn,” Temple reminded him and pointed at the board. “If I were you, I would move this to the left.”

“Huh,” Grif said, grabbing the piece Temple had suggested he should move. And he did. Just in the opposite direction of where Temple had said.

Temple pursed his lips. “Oh. So little trust.”

“We are fighting against each other, dipshit.”

“Ah, we’re at petty name-calling now.”

“Your move,” Grif said, tapping his finger against his empty plate as he waited.

* * *

Grif was losing. He had seen that coming, honestly. He’d have to be incredibly lucky in order to beat the apparently chess champion while only barely having learned the game. And, well, when was the last time Grif had been lucky?

Maybe when he’d survived the Meta… But still; the one-man draft had to prove Grif was the most unlucky person alive.

That, and the fact he’d been thrown back in time to live with his enemies. That was also kinda heartbreakingly unlucky.

Temple was too freaking patient, carefully taking out Grif’s pieces one by one. Now Grif was stuck with his useless king, moving it around one annoying step at the time to avoid Temple winning.

Not that it mattered. Temple could probably kill the king at any moment. He was just letting Grif corner himself so he could get his stupid checkmate to gloat.

And the worst part – Temple was having the time of his life. Grif could see the smile on his lips, the excitement in his eyes, and the way he kept flexing his fingers as if struggling to not just move Grif’s pieces for him.

Grif wished he could travel back to the future – not just because he wanted to get back to his own timeline, but also because he _needed_ to tell the others that Temple was a giant fucking nerd. A murderous nerd. But still a chess nerd.

Watching Temple enjoy himself was annoying enough in itself, but Grif could feel his annoyance grow as his choices became more and more limited. At least he’d learned one thing tonight: chess sucked as badly as he’d thought he would.

It was unpleasantly cold inside Blue Base suddenly, and Grif just wished this desert could decide if it wanted to be hot or not. His head was aching, and he felt slightly sick in his stomach. Nothing a nap wouldn’t fix, but Temple was unable to give him a break.

“Where’s the game-over button?” Grif grunted. “Can I throw my piece against the wall or-?”

“Come on,” Temple said, making another move that would force Grif closer to the corner of the board. “Don’t be a sore loser.”

He leaned over the table in order to reach his piece and Grif felt his leg brush against his own. It was an accident and Temple quickly pulled away to regain their personal space, but Grif had looked down and seen the pistol strapped to Temple’s thigh.

“Dude, I’m done. You win. That’s what you want, right?”

“Yes. But let’s finish the game-“

“You have my king begging for mercy. Good job. Satisfied?”

“Just move your piece, Grif,” Temple said, already holding the knight he was going to use for his upcoming checkmate.

Grif set his jaw before finally just moving his king the only way he could – one step backwards.

And Temple was there immediately, finally ending the game. “That was fun,” he said, smiling. “See, it wasn’t that hard.”

“Whatever.”

“Maybe you will do better tomorrow.”

“I’m not playing.”

Temple stiffened in his seat. “Those were the rules.”

“Well, it’s a stupid game,” Grif said and resisted the urge to reach up and rub his temples. It _hurt_. “So I’m done. You can go get your fucking victory boner over something else.”

“Don’t be crude – I already have to live with Buckey’s language.”

“Aren’t I technically a Red? We’re not even on the same team.”

“Yes, we are,” Temple told him sternly. The amusement was gone from his eyes. Now they were just cold and annoyed and reaching the point where they would just be madly angry. Or angrily mad. Angry and mad. “And tomorrow you’ll help out in the lair, and we can try again after dinner.”

Did Temple want to play house? Sounded like it. Looked like Grif was here to screw up a team dynamic. Again.

“Yeah… Let’s not to that.”

Temple was clenching his fists.  “You owe us-“

“Nothing,” Grif cut him off. He owed them nothing.

“You are dependent on us,” he snarled. When Grif opened his mouth to protest, he cut him off, “Or do you want to starve death like a madman in your cave? We can hear you talk to yourself, you know. A pitiful sight, I have to inform you.”

“I’m not-“ Grif inhaled sharply. A part of his brain was telling him to calm down, to apologize and please him and gain his trust to use it for his own advantage later. But a bigger part of him was exhausted and cold and nauseous and hurt and angry. He could feel his right hand shake.

“I just wonder what they did to you,” Temple said, and that was enough.

Grif quickly reached under the table to snatch the pistol before Temple could react. He scrambled backwards, scraping the chair legs against the floor in the process, and aimed the weapon at Temple. “I should shoot you,” he said, voice steady.

He should. He really should. He knew what Temple would become. He could stop that. He could stop it all from happening.

And maybe he’d mess with the timeline and the time machine would never be built and he’d be stuck here. But he had to do that.

“Why, because I’m a dirty blue?” Temple asked in a mocking tone, standing up. He wasn’t raising his arms or anything. Just rolling his eyes at Grif. “You are smarter than that. I know that.”

“I’m pretty fucking stupid.”

“Did they tell you that?” Temple asked. “Over and over? I’ve been wondering. What did they do?”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Grif said. The others hadn’t done anything. Temple was wrong, all wrong, of course he was wrong, he didn’t know-

“How did the UNSC break you?” Temple took a step closer. “If the result was to dump an insane soldier in the middle of our _peaceful_ canyon, how did the process go? Did they lock you up? My guess would be-“

“You don’t-“

“-solitary confinement.” He looked at the shaking hands that still managed to keep the pistol aimed at this face. “How long? That is a good question, isn’t it? How long does it take for someone to lose their mind…”

“You should know.”

“I’m not the one hearing voices. Are you seeing things as well? The reports I’ve received from the others mentioned your behavior being… disturbing.”

Grif set his jaw. His finger was on the trigger. Just a little bit of pressure, and he’d done it. He’d be a hero. Right?

“Don’t you want revenge? For what they did to you.”

“ _No_.”

He didn’t. It wasn’t their fault, wasn’t their fault, he’d been the one who had quit, and it was his own fucking fault for being so fucking stupid and-

Temple smiled. “But you’re lying.”

Grif could shoot him. Right in his stupid, smirking face. But…

…he’d told Dylan the truth. He didn’t want to shoot at more people.

He was done with that. The UNSC had taken him from Hawaii and put a gun in his hands and expected him to shoot people. And he’d done so.

He’d lost count on Chorus. Back in Blood Gulch the kill counts had been a joke, something to be proud of (maybe with the team-killing as the exception) but now Grif couldn’t keep track of how many lives he’d taken…

He’d pulled the trigger when he’d rescued his friends. It’d be easier then, just running and fighting for your life and not thinking about it. That was how he’d managed it so far.

But just staring into the eyes of the person… and watch the bullet go through the brain… and with the person not even fighting back…

Grif felt sick.

And slowly he lowered the gun.

Temple’s smile grew even bigger. “See? I-“

And then Grif punched him straight in the face.

The surprise in Temple’s eyes and the blood running from his nose… Almost too satisfying, actually. Grif really hoped the lady in the ceiling was filming this.

“Okay,” Temple said numbly. He’d moved his hand up to rub his sore nose and was now staring at his bloodstained fingers. “And I’d actually enjoyed our evening so far.”

No, this was definitely the fun part of tonight. Grif took a step closer, fist raised, because damn that first punch had felt good. Almost good enough to dull his headache for a moment. Maybe another punch would do the trick. Temple definitely deserved it.

Temple’s eyes widened, and for the first time something that looked like panic could be seen in his expression. “Wait!”

So damn satisfying.

Until Grif realized he was looking at something behind him, and he turned around just to see Surge raise his weapon.

It was almost sad how comfortingly familiar it felt to have the butt of a shotgun smash against his skull.

But it only lasted for the briefest second – then it was just pain.

Then darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, we hit chapter number 10. Party! Here's to more to come!


	11. Bad Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temple is not a doctor.

The voices were drifting in and out of his throbbing skull.

 “…it had no bullets in it! Do you think I’m stupid enough to let a loaded weapon be anywhere near him?!”

“Uhm…”

“I have everything in control.”

That was Temple. Temple huffing to prove his point. Grif recognized the voice.

He slowly opened his eyes, and it felt like his eyelids were glued shut. But not in the normal, comforting way. He always had trouble opening his eyes in the morning. But not like this.

“But, if your gun doesn’t have bullets, how were you going to shoot him?”

He saw a blue of aqua. Next to cobalt. They were very big. His head hurt.

“We are not going to shoot him.”

“But… Is he really worth all this trouble? Can’t we just let him loose on the fields and wish him a good life? I’m sure he’s learned to hunt and fend for himself and all that.”

“What about asking for a refund? I mean, he did sorta arrive here broken.”

Simmons. That was Simmons’ voice. Grif widened his eyes further to see the maroon armor. There was a blur of red next to it.

“Scumbag should learn some proper manners.”

“Oh, I am sure a concussion will improve his mood.” _Temple_. The blue color was coming closer, growing bigger. “Well?”

“What?”

Grif kept his eyes closed. Not Simmons, not Simmons. Simmons would know how good Grif was at pretending to be asleep. Grif could fool them, it was easy. Just slow your breathing and keep your mouth shut and your eyes closed.

“You can’t leave him on the floor.” Temple sounded closer now. Grif struggled not to jolt in horror as he realized _he’d punched Temple_. Which was bad. But also good. It had felt good. But he knew from experience that punching people usually made them pretty mad.

“…Why?”

With his eyes closed it was too easy to pretend Simmons was here. But he wasn’t. Grif knew that. He just had to keep remembering that fact.

“You are the ones at fault – you can clean up your own mess! I did not expect to be working with people whose manners are below children’s.”

“Dude, you know Loco is on our team, right? That’s like a kid in itself.”

“Do we really have to drag him back to Red Base? Please? He is heavier than he looks. And he already looks heavy.”

Not Simmons, not Simmons, not Simmons, not Simmons, not-

“Just get him off the floor. And do make sure he’s still breathing. You know I do not tolerate team-killing.”

Grif squeezed his eyes shut and kept it that way until he finally blacked out again.

* * *

Grif woke up, and realized to his horror that his headache had grown worse. That shouldn’t be physical possible.

It reminded him of the time the tank had rolled over him – in fact the pain was almost worse. That could hardly be a good sign.

He opened his eyes just the slightest, regretting the motion instantly since it sent waves of sickening pain through the rest of his body. It would have immobilized him had it not been for the nausea. It felt like his stomach was doing twists and turns. He was shivering.

It reminded him of the temple. Not Temple the bastard, but the temple back on Chorus that had changed everything. Also back then he’d felt weird – his stomach had felt all strange and bubbling, his skin had been tingling, but he’d felt hot and sweaty. Now he was just cold and miserable. If a nice weirdness was the cause of the Temple of Procreation was this the Temple of Blue Balls?

The uncomfortable sensation wasn’t quite the same though. No longing or weird inner thoughts or uncontrollable lower parts. He just felt so sick. In fact, so sick he could feel it crawling up his throat.

He scrambled out of bed – and somewhere in the back of his mind the realization hit him that he had in fact been lying on a bed and, uhm, he hadn’t been there before he blacked out – and stumbled across the floor, out of the room, towards the bathroom, the bathroom, where the fuck-

With his head still filled with stinging fog, he somehow managed to find a toilet which he quickly grabbed onto and then proceeded to empty his stomach. A bitter, sour taste filled his mouth and his body seemed to convulse as he thrust his head forward.

He coughed and sputtered, trying to understand what was happening. His stomach shouldn’t be like this. His stomach was sturdy and big – just like it was supposed to be, shut up, Simmons – and it had been his loyal companion through his entire life. It had survived snacks years way past expiration date, MREs that had been in the shade of _fucking purple_ , not to mention Sarge’s cooking which had been a deathtrap in itself.

Simmons was the one who had vomited back when they had discovered just how old the MREs in Red Base had been. (“We are talking about decades, Grif!” Simmons had screamed in the middle of the kitchen. Good times.)

Grif’s stomach was strong.

Then again, this was the third time he’d thrown up since… Well, it was quite hard the measure time now when he’d messed up the timeline.

But when he’d eaten those methshrooms his gut had given up. But they had been blue and glowing and all that, so maybe it was not a big surprise. Then he’d gotten drunk and thrown up on Temple, and, yeah, he didn’t regret that. That had almost felt as good as the punch.

He finally had a break from vomiting what had to be half-digested fish and granola bars from yesterday, and he panted loudly before resting his forehead against the cold metal. It _hurt_. Either his stomach was holding a grudge against him, or this was some weird kind delayed side effect from time-travelling.

It felt like his gut was currently trying to commit suicide, being stabbed over and over. His body jolted again as a new wave of nausea hit him, and this time it was just liquid spilling from his mouth. He retched, gasping for air whenever his throat was clear.

He wasn’t sure why the cold touch of the metal was soothing when he was freezing to the point where he was covered in goosebumps. He gripped sides of the toilet more tightly, and it was around then he realized his arms were shaking.

His stomach convulsed once more and he leaned forward to face the toilet water again. He was barely aware when someone brushed the hair away from the front of his face and held it together behind his head. It didn’t help much, seeing how it already been in his way before.

When Grif realized it was Temple who had moved to stand behind him, he thrust his head to the side to tear his hair loose from his grasp.

Temple let go and Grif’s vision was obscured by black ringlets again. “Just trying to help,” he said, and held up his hands in an apologetic manner.

Grif tried to send him a deathglare but he didn’t quite find the strength. He lowered his head to let it rest against his forearm, and suddenly he felt the cool drops of sweat running down his forehead.

“Seems like food poisoning,” Temple let him know, shaking his head sadly. “Must have been a bad fish.”

Grif turned his head to stare at him, very aware of the stains on his chin. He wasn’t sure how to respond, and in the end he didn’t, since his stomach decided to die again. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. At least he’d caught sight of Temple’s swollen nose and that was somewhat comforting.

“You’ll live,” Temple said dryly, crouching down next to him. “I actually had food poisoning once. Quite horrible. And Biff never let me live with how I stained his couch. Are you done?”

Without waiting for a proper answer to his question, Temple snaked an arm around his shoulder to help him stand. Grif wasn’t quite sure if he’d been nodding off, or if Temple had just been quick, but he barely had any time to resist before he was dragged out of the room.

“Don’t puke on me,” Temple ordered, and if Grif _anything_ left in his stomach he would have been happy to disobey the command. “ _Again_.”

Deciding not to make things easy for the asshole – and also because his legs kept wobbling – Grif decided he might as well be a deadweight. Heh. _Deadweight_. Sarge used to call him that…

He was aware when he was roughly dropped onto the mattress he had fled from before. It wasn’t the couch this time, and he should probably think further about that fact but for now he was too tired.

“Sleep it off,” Temple said, and Grif, despite being enemies and all that, figured that was a pretty good advice.

Turning to face the wall and crawling closer to the corner of the bed, Grif promptly closed his eyes and passed out.

* * *

Someone was currently piercing a knife through Grif’s head. He yelped and opened his eyes to see Temple withdrawing his hand.

“Sorry,” he said, “just checking for infection.”

“You poked it,” Grif said, voice filled with bitter betrayal. He could feel the bruise Surge had left when he’d knocked him out.

Temple just tilted his head. His nose was still red, but not crooked enough to look like Grif had broken it. Damn it.

It felt like someone had broken Grif’s entire skull. He’s had headaches before but this… He’d prefer the tank accident again.

“You look… unwell.”

“No shit,” Grif croaked and wondered if he was dying. It felt like it.

Temple settled in a chair placed next to this bed. It wasn’t the living area then. Perhaps a spare bed in one of the sleeping quarters?

“It was just a matter of time, I suppose,” Temple said with a sigh. “Who knows what is in that water? And I doubt fish that color are meant to be eaten. But the USCN stopped dropping off useful supplies a long time ago. And, well, then there was you.”

When the stomach cramps hit him again, Grif curled into a ball as if it would ease the pain.

So this was how he was gonna die. In Blue Base in Desert Gulch and years from now his friends would pass by his gravesite without knowing it when they were in the middle of their search for Church. Goodbye, cruel world.

“There’s a bucket next to your bed,” Temple informed him. “Please use it.”

It was too fucking cold. Grif clutched his blanket tighter, wishing it was thicker or that he at least had three more of them.

Something was pressed against his lips with enough force to make the glass clank against his teeth. “Drink.” The glass was angled to let the water run down his throat but Grif turned his head, resulting in the cool liquid splashing against his chin instead.

“Fuck off.”

“Or you can just dehydrate to death.”

“Fuck off,” Grif said again and reached for the pillow to press it against his head. Muting out Temple’s voice would ease his headache. Maybe.

Another tremor ran through his body. His stomach was burning. Was this how Tucker had felt before Junior had burst out of his body? Tucker had said that it’d felt awful and Grif had believed that, but this was just beyond before. But he hadn’t been around any aliens…

Just Temple’s stupid fish.

So much for stealing food from your enemies. He couldn’t even get that right.

“I’ll check up on you later,” Temple said, as if that was meant to be a comfort.

* * *

It must be another surgery. It _hurt_ and his body felt wrong, and no matter how he twisted and turned in the bed he couldn’t get comfortable. He wasn’t hungry and that was a big, blinking alarm sign in itself.

Most of all he wanted to sleep, if anything just to relieve his shitty state the slightest, but he was never quite aware of when he drifted off and when he awoke, so it all just ended up being a confused haze.

When he opened his eyes he saw colors and he gasped slightly. It was okay, because as much as Sarge liked to joke about him dying, he’d always complained about having to deal with a heavy, smelling corpse, so Grif had always lived. Even Simmons had bothered to fetch him medicine when he’d grown tired of Grif’s constant sneezing during a cold.

“…I don’t know. I’m pretty sure he’d dying.”

Simmons. Grif tried to say the name out loud but his teeth were chattering too much. He kept looking at the maroon color, listening to the voice. Simmons, that was Simmons, and he had to apologize because Grif had been a piece of shit and he’d left the others and that was wrong, all wrong, and now Grif was dying, but Simmons was right there and-

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, and his throat was burning to the point where tears appeared in his eyes. “So fucking sorry, I’m an asshole, I’m sorry, I didn’t think…”

“Uhm… What is he doing?”

“Apologizing,” a pleased voice said. “See, I told you he’d come around.”

“…After almost breaking your nose.”

“Did I ask for your opinion?”

Blue filled his vision, but the _blue_ kind. It was lighter. Cobalt.

_Church_.

But that was wrong because Church was dead, and the voice was wrong, and Church had been an idiot and sacrificed himself and everyone had been sad and Caboose had cried and Simmons’ voice had been squeaky for days. But then he’d been back and they’d heard him and seen him, right there on the table after reporter had given the message to them, and the others had started the stupid rescue mission, but Grif hadn’t agreed. He’d stayed because he wanted Church dead, and he hadn’t helped because he was tired and a piece of shit, and _Church was dead_.

Church had deleted the files that contained himself, and Grif had fucking emptied the metaphorical recycle bin so he could never ever be brought back.

“I’m sorry,” he said again and looked at the cobalt armor in front of him, and he kept repeating the apology over and over because he wasn’t quite sure of what else to do.

* * *

It had to be some kind of crazy cold. Simmons had always told him he’d have a shitty immune system after the surgery, and he has turned out to be right. As always.

Grif was near death and the others had escaped with some hoarse voices. It made them sound all weird. Simmons was alright. Just a bit more grumpy than usual. Grif was glad he wasn’t sick.

He made himself as small as possible as he hugged his blanket tighter. They could at least turn up the heat a little so he didn’t have to freeze to death. He’d pulled the blanket up to his chin, trying to keep his face warm. He was barely able to see the blue blur in the corner of the room.

“I think you should stop being sick,” Caboose told him with his weird voice. He sighed. “It’s making me sad.”

“Okay,” Grif said, shivering.

“I don’t like fish anymore.”

“Me neither.”

* * *

He’d tried to reach for the glass of water next to his bed, hoping it help on his aching body, though he’d rather have something warm than cold… Coffee, maybe, or hot chocolate. But the more he thought about that, the more he realized his stomach was still trying to kill him. Perhaps it was best to stick with water.

But his hands had been shaking too much and had dropped it. So now Simmons was cursing and swearing and cleaning the floor.

“Sorry,” Grif muttered because if Simmons was pissed it meant he was going to leave soon. Then Grif would be miserable _and_ alone. “M’freezing.”

“I know,” Simmons sneered, as if Grif had been saying that before. Maybe he had. He couldn’t remember.

If Grif was dying, he might as well try. “You could help me, you know. Snuggle with me, handsome.”

“Uhhhhhhh…”

He should probably had seen that coming, knowing how his teammate was not used to flirting. Simmons froze, helmet focused on him but visor revealing nothing.

Grif should probably be embarrassed but he was too tired to give a shit. And if he was really dying, then he didn’t have to care at all. That was pretty neat. Maybe.

“Temple!” Simmons whined. “He’s being weird again!”

“What now?!”

 “I, uh, think he’s flirting with me?”

“ _What_?!”

Maroon was shoved away, replaced by cobalt.

_Temple_. Grif tried to hang onto the name, hoping to understand why it made his skin crawl, but he was so tired and it kept escaping his mind.

A firm hand clasped around his jaw and put a thermometer in his mouth, and when he tried to spit it out, it just forced tightened its grip to force his jaw shut so it could stay in place. He first let go when it beeped.

Maroon entered his vision again. “So is he dying?”

“ _No_. It’ll pass after a couple of days.”

“…Didn’t you say that last wee… Not that I know anything! I mean, you’re totally right. I’m not a doctor! You’re the one who knew all about the-”

“ _Exactly_. And we don’t need a doctor when he’s going to be _just fine_.”

“Nice,” Grif said, and wondered if they even heard him.

* * *

He’d always thought Hell would be hot. That’s how it was described in all the tales, right?

It was just so fucking cold.

Simmons usually had a blanket he could steal. But Simmons wasn’t there, and Grif couldn’t see anything maroon, and that was right – Simmons wasn’t there, he’d left, and Grif had quit, and he was so sorry, and he just needed Simmons to listen, Simmons, Dick-

Someone was snickering. “He keeps talking about dicks.”

“He’s probably calling you a dick.”

“Dude, I bet he’s having horny dreams.”

Grif buried his face against his pillow. 

* * *

At some point he became coherent enough to understand that it was Temple who was constantly hovering near his bed. Temple who was his asshole and his enemy. It just made it worse because it made the whole thing a lot more creepy and annoying than comforting.

He was readjusting the blanket, forcing water down his throat, taking his temperature, and easily swiped away Grif’s arms when he tried to push Temple away. In the beginning he had cheerfully been telling Grif how he was getting better, just needing some days of rest, and how lucky he should count himself to have the team helping him like this.

Apparently they were the only reason he was still alive. Grif didn’t know how to feel about that.

But as Grif continued to feel like shit, and apparently looking like it too, Temple seemed to grow more and more annoyed with the situation.

“Drink,” he said before practically shoving the bottle down his throat. As Grif sputtered to catch his breath, water drops running down his chin, Temple prepared the thermometer.

Grif made sure to make his shivering visible just in case Temple asked how he was feeling.

“Don’t have any dog tags,” Grif’s mouth suddenly croaked. “M’lost them.”

“ _This is not fatal_ ,” Temple hissed, and it took a moment before Grif realized he was sounding angry. As if this was Grif’s fault…

It was Temple’s stupid dinner that had started this shit.

“A few days and you’ll feel fine. So stop being dramatic,” Temple ordered before spinning around to storm away.

Well, that was sorta ironic, wasn’t it?

* * *

One day Grif opened his head and felt better. Not good, but just less like shit. His body still hurt, and he still wasn’t hungry, but now it finally felt like he could focus.

Instead of everything being a hurting haze, he now understood.

His friends were not there. They had never been there.

He was sick and surrounded by the Blues and Reds. And how he had thought things could not get worse…

He was still too weak to move so he stayed in the bed, waiting. There was not much else to do. He still felt cold as fuck, so he wrapped his arms around himself under the blanket and closed his eyes.

There was no one in the room right now, which at least granted him silence. It also left him to focus on his aching body, sadly.

He must have fallen asleep again because when he opened his eyes he heard voices. Not the voices inside his head, thankfully, but distant voices from the other side of the wall.

“-but you said-“

“ _I know what I said, Buckey_! Unlike the rest of you, I always have an idea of what I’m talking about!”

“Then why is he still looking like the plague just visited us?”

“Oh, feel free to blame me for his fragile health!”

From the tone of Temple’s sneer it sounded like Burkey had hit a nerve. Which was something Grif could actually respect, seeing how he had tried to achieve the very same thing since he had become stuck in the gulch.

Now when Grif thought about it, Temple had seemed rather distraught the last times he had _graced_ Grif with his presence. More and more panicked and somewhat stressed about the situation. And seeing Temple finally lose control was oddly satisfying.

Temple’s weird obsession with his health was more than a little creepy, and it gave Grif some suspicions he was too tired to deal with right now.

But it also gave him an opportunity to drag out Temple’s distress.

Reaching out with a shaking hand, Grif managed to dip his fingers into the glass of water, and then he used the hand to wipe his forehead, effectively covering it with a layer of a liquid. Simmons had once told him he deserved an Oscar for the way he would pretend to be sick in order to avoid training.

The fact that he was already feeling like shit would only improve his performance.

Closing his eyes, he made sure his body remained lax and then he waited.

He heard the footsteps entering the room, but pretended to be asleep, focusing on his headache to make sure his expression remained pained.

He could feel Temple’s glance on him.

And finally, Temple sighed. “Fine. Call Doc.”

Grif opened his eyes and jolted upwards as the realization hit him, but for a moment he forgot his weakened body and the quick movement just caused his vision to turn black.

“Is he having a seizure?” Gene asked, but his voice sounded very far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I finally posted my Reverse Big Bang story some days ago, which has been super fun to make, but now my head is clear to fully focus on my current WIPs. AO3 was being an ass when I published the one-shot, so for a while it was stuck at the bottom of the page despite it being just posted, so I now shamefully self-advertise for that story seeing how a lot of you might have missed it because of the glitch. Sorry, but yeah I’m pretty proud of how “Page Three Hundred and Sixty-Four” turned out, so it was just a really bad timing.
> 
> Moving out next week so if my updates are slow it’s because of moving chaos!
> 
> And a shoutout for Creatrixanmi who has helped me get a hold of the this and the next chapters!
> 
> Also: hands up. How many of you forgot about Doc? ‘Cause I sure didn’t! For once…


	12. Bitter Pill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doc arrives.

Doc’s ability to appear and disappear in seconds continued to puzzle Temple. He wasn’t sure if he had a ship hidden somewhere, or if he’d been granted the ability to teleport, or anything like that. Doc claimed they just didn’t pay enough attention to him.

If that was the case, then it was Doc’s own fault for being so ridiculously bland.

They’d met the medic back when Loco had confused a watergun with a real gun during his self-proclaimed water fun day. While he wasn’t exactly the most qualified or effective medic that Temple had met, hindsight had made him realize that at least Doc had arrived in time back then.

Medics didn’t always do that.

And since no one on the team knew how to handle injuries that didn’t fade after a couple of days or couldn’t be fixed with a plaster, he was a useful card to play.

Plus he provided them valuable information.

“Hey Temple!” Doc said, waving his arms in a greeting as he carelessly strolled into the Gulch. “What’s the emergency? Did Buckey sprain his right wrist again, that rascal? I told him to take it easy when he’s having fun.”

“No,” Temple told him harshly and dragged him inside the base for him to see the sight himself. They might as well get this over with. “The situation is quite… different.”

“How?” he asked, struggling to keep up the pace and not dropping the med kit he was carrying. “Do I need to amputate? Because I’m not really comfortable with that yet. I mean, cutting off limbs is easy, but stopping the bleeding is a lot trickier than it seems.”

“A food poisoning. Quite severe. Do you know how to deal with that?”

“Oh man, that’s some messy work. Who’s the poor fella?”

“You’ll see.”

When they entered the sleeping area where Temple had prepared the extra bed, Doc froze in the doorway as he stared at the patient.

“Uhm, is that a prisoner of war?”

“New teammate.”

“Oh.” He seemed to consider that for a moment, but then he asked, “Is this some sort of team-building exercise? Because I’m not really sure if I approve of it.”

Despite how the blanket on top of the patient had been pulled up so it covered almost every inch of his body, it still revealed the sets of pink, fluffy handcuffs around his wrists that kept them strapped to the bedposts. None of the bases had a proper set of handcuffs because they were apparently meant to kill all prisoners (Yeah, the UNSC would just love that) or keep them unconscious or whatever.

But _of course_ Cronut had a pair ready – he even had a _daring_ outfit to match. Temple had ordered Surge to burn it, just for the sake of their remaining sanity.

Gene, who had been ordered to keep watch on the patient since Grif was still somewhat technically a Red, looked up from his datapad to comment on Doc’s statement. “Well, we thought he was having seizures so we figured it was safest to tie him up so he’d stop doing it.”

“That’s… I don’t really think that’s how it works.” Doc leaned over Grif who had his eyes closed. “So what is with the gag?”

Gene shrugged. “So he wouldn’t stop vomiting and then Cronut suggested something about a plug-“

“Oh.” Doc tilted his head. “That really isn’t a safe solution-“

“That’s why you are the Doctor, and we are not supposed to have any medical training,” Temple hissed to him as a reminder. None of them were equipped to keep each other alive. Just like the UNSC had wanted.

“Technically, I am a medic,” Doc said before leaning forward and snatching the rag from Grif’s mouth in a quick motion.

Grif finally opened his eyes as his mouth was freed, and he sputtered and coughed for some seconds before snarling, “You cockbites-“

Gene looked at the rag, as if considering putting it back in. “And then there is his language,” he sighed.

Grif twisted and turned his bound wrists, but never really managed to flip him off.

“Hello,” Doc said and held out a hand as a greeting which of course wasn’t accepted for obvious reasons. Grif glared at him, eyes widened at the sight. “I’m-“

“Doc,” Grif finished, almost breathless. There was a happy tone to his voice.

Temple scowled. Grif hadn’t seemed pleased ever since arriving and now he was apparently happy _because of Doc’s arrival_. Who was ever happy to see Doc? Maybe he thought he was dying. Temple couldn’t blame him. He had even considered the thought…

Even though that had never been the planned result.

“Yes,” Doc said, sounding a bit too happy with himself. “I am a medic! And I am here to help you, uhm…?”

“Grif,” Temple said flatly. “With two F’s.”

The soldier in the bed glared at him, as if displeased that Temple had been the one to answer. But the situation craved it – if Grif wasn’t strong enough to carry on a full conversation, Temple was more than willing to take the control so that things could be set right.

“Oh,” Doc said, chuckling slightly. “That’s funny! With all the names and-“

“Yes,” Temple cut him off through gritted teeth because there were things Grif hadn’t been informed of. _Yet_. It would happen soon, once he was actually coherent enough to process new information.

Grif shivered violently again, and Temple reached down adjust the blanket so it was covering his shoulder. When Grif just squirmed at the touch, Temple just sighed – it was a never-ending job, trying to keep the fool from hurting himself out of idiotic stubbornness.

“Alright, Grif, let’s have a look at you. How do you feel?”

“Like shit.” Grif’s eyes snapped open again. For the first time in days, there was a certain clearness in them. Temple recognized the look. He was planning something. Grif coughed before continuing, “Like, dying. It’s bad. I need to talk with you in private, organize my final will and all that.”

“Now, now, let’s not take the bad news in advance! I haven’t even taken your temperature yet.”

“I need to talk with you,” Grif said again, but then a new wave of stomach cramps seemed to roll over him. His eyes closed, and he let of a groan while he wrapped his fingers around the bedposts as a comfort.

“I have some painkillers,” Doc let them know. “Though they might make you a little silly! But it’ll wear off!”

“I-“

“Oh god, is he going to lose more touch with reality?” Gene groaned at the thought. “Because I think we should let the handcuffs stay on then, just in case.”

“Go fuck yourse-“

Temple quickly shoved the waterbottle into his mouth now when it already was open.

“That’s good.” Doc nodded in approval. “It’s important not to get dehydrated!”

“Let’s go fetch those painkillers,” Temple said and grabbed the medic’s arm to lead him out of the room.

“But it’s right here in my bag-“

“ _Now_.”

Gene let out a disappointed sound as he was left alone with Grif, but Temple didn’t have the time to deal with that right now.

Temple closed the door behind them so they could keep their conversation in private.

“Temple, you seem very stressed,” Doc said and tilted his head. “Did you read that book I sent you?”

“I don’t need any grieving manuals.”

“There’s always counselling!”

“About that,” Temple began, leaning against the wall. “Grif is… a special case.”

Doc gasped. “Do you mean-“

“He’s a lunatic.”

“Temple, that’s not nice!” Doc even tsked at him. “Do you remember that talk we had about harmful words?”

Temple ignored that comment, and instead began to pace back and forth. “He spent his first week _staring at a cliffwall_. He speaks to himself, he rambles. If you try to start a conversation with him, he’ll insult you. I told him the truth, I explained our situation, I offered him friendship and yet he remains hostile!”

“Awwww,” Doc said, and Temple turned to stare at him. “You want to be his friend!”

Temple froze. “ _No_.” He snorted at the idea. “I happened to offer him friendship and he so rudely refused it. There is a difference.”

“…Which is?”

“Just know you don’t have to listen to everything he says. It’s nonsense most of it. I’ve been listening to his mutter in his sleep for days, and I don’t have a fucking clue of what he is trying to say. It has to be his previous base…”

“Judging from his face, it looks like something must have happened! That’s quite the skin draft – and I’d known because I’ve performed a few! Well, tried to, anyway.”

Temple sighed. It wasn’t like Grif was going to tell him anything about his past. He’d even be sure to listen in during his fever fits, just to see if he would accidently spill anything. But it had just been random words and complaint. Of course there had been the apology, and that had at least been something.

“I just thought,” he began, “that when he got sick, he’d learn to appreciate how much effort we’ve put into keeping him alive.” He clenched his fists, and shook his head to get rid of the thoughts. “Whatever. Just find out what’s wrong and fix it.” 

* * *

“Oh, yeah, that’s definitely a poisoning,” Doc said after finishing his examination. It had taken so long that Grif had fallen asleep somewhere between getting his temperature checked and getting stabbed with Doc’s needle. Temple didn’t complain – at least now he didn’t have to deal with Grif’s struggling and weird attempts to ask Doc for help.

The medic began to place his instruments back in his bag. “Do you have any antidotes in the base?”

“No,” Gene answered, not even bothering to look up from his datapad. “Lot of poison though.”

Temple turned around to glare at him. “Shut up.”

Gene froze, and his tongue almost became twisted as he quickly explained himself, “Well, it’s just that sometimes you need a bit of the poison itself to make a proper antidote. There are documentaries about it and everything!”

“Then why didn’t you make yourself useful and make one?!”

He squirmed under Temple’s glare. “Uhm, I just know the theory! That’s not the same of practical knowledge! Remember that time Loco watched a ‘how to bake a pie’ tutorial on youtube? It didn’t exactly go as planned.”

Doc let his presence be known again by shoving some pill bottles into Temple’s hand. “These should work. Oh, and these too to help with the fever. And be sure he drinks and eats. Hah, that shouldn’t be a problem if he’s like the Grif I know. It’s all very uncanny, isn’t it?”

“About that,” Temple said, looking down at the sleeping patient. “Any news about the Reds and Blues?”

“Oh. Well, you know them! Always busy with another wacky adventure. Without me…” Doc laughed sadly. “But it’s so good seeing you guys again! It’s been too long! You didn’t forget about me, did you?”

“Uhm, no?” Gene said with so little confidence in his voice that it might as well have been a question.

Temple sighed.

* * *

The pills worked. Grif stopped shivering, began to be somewhat coherent, and his appetite returned. Judging from past experiences with Biff, that had to be a good sign.

“You look better,” Temple said as he entered the room with a traying carrying a bowl of soup and a glass filled with water.

“Yeah,” Grif said, trying to readjust his position. “Definitely not having seizures or anything so…?”

Temple sighed and placed the tray on the bedtable. “Should I expect a fist in my face? Again?”

“I think I’ve tired myself out,” Grif muttered bitterly.

“Alright,” Temple said and began to work on the pink handcuffs, wearing a grimace as he did so. _There was fur on them_.

“I hope this is as uncomfortable for you as it is for me,” Grif let him know.

“Oh, I never thought I’d be touching these in my life.”

“How do you think I feel?”

Temple snorted, and finally Grif was freed. He started rubbing his wrists. As if they’d be damaged with all that pink, fluffy fur surrounding the metal.

“Here,” Temple said and handed him the tray.

Grif lifted the bowl to his lips, apparently forgetting everything about the spoon that was so obviously placed next to it. When he put down the bowl, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand and first then noticed Temple’s frown. “What?”

Temple just sighed.

Grif suddenly squinted. “So I have a question.”

“Is that question shaped like a mean pun?”

“No.” He started to innocently wring his hands. “I’m just curious – who are the Reds and Blues?”

“ _What?”_

Grif shrugged. “I just overheard you talk about them, and I was just wondering who they are, and what is your relationship with them, and do you by any chance have some malicious plans involving them?”

“I don’t see why I should discuss this with you.”

“Whatever, man.” Grif looked down at his bowl again. “Just wondered.”

Temple watched him eat in silence and considered his options. Finally, he sighed and found Gene’s datapad stored in one of the bedtables. “You remember how I told you that you are in fact just a simulation trooper meant to die as field practice for the corrupted Project Freelancer’s super soldiers?”

“Yes?”

“And how you barely reacted to that revelation?”

“Well, I’ve been called worse in my life.”

“Okay… Well, as you might have realized there were multiple teams of such Sim Troopers, since, well, you are one as well. But there’s this special set of idiots that managed to get the attention of the outside world by exposing Project Freelancer’s cruelty. Not that they seem to care about what they’ve accomplished. No truly. Oh well, Doc knows them and he’s told us about them, plus we found some files while… scouting. It helped us realize we are not exactly unique.”

Grif shifted on the bed. “But if they took down the Project, doesn’t that mean you can take a vacation? That’s awesome, buddy, look at you completing all the work without doing anything! You deserve the rest!”

“Oh we are far from done,” Temple let him know which caused Grif to sulk again. He had to be the laziest individual Temple had ever met. “Are you done?” he asked, reaching to pick up the tray.

“Yeah.”

As Temple stood in the doorway, carefully watching to see if Grif was planning on leaving the bed, Grif asked again, “So, uhm, you mentioned some files? Can I see them? Because what you are saying sounds totally crazy and I need proof.”

“Sure….” Temple handed him the datapad and scrolled down to find the right page. “It isn’t much, since some of the computer’s files had been corrupted, but we’ve discovered some of the surveillance recordings we all suffered under during their experiments. You can see how their traits have been carefully picked, judging from their behavior.”

He pressed play on a random video.

_“Don’t tell me. The Consulate General from Spanish Land is coming, and without Lopez, we don't have anyone to translate.”_

_“There’s no such thing as Spanish Land, you retard.”_

_“Yes there is. They have those, uh… uh, waterslides. And all that salsa!”_

_“No, they don’t.”_

_“Well, I guess you would know.”_

_“What’s that supposed to mean? For the last time, I’m Dutch-Irish!”_

_“Hey, don't let your fiery Latin temper get out of control. I was just trying to make a point.”_

 “I’ll leave you to it,” Temple said. “Good to see that you are feeling better.”

Grif didn’t reply but remained totally hypnotized by the screen, holding the datapad so tightly that it might crack from the pressure.

Twnety minutes later Grif was still watching videos, face almost pressed against the screen, and Temple ended up confiscating the datapad.

* * *

It took days before Grif finally had the chance to be alone with Doc (a situation he would have avoided like the plague in any other situation), and he’d spent that time worrying if the medic might just disappear again in the meantime. Hah, that was probably the first time someone cared where Doc was.

But Grif needed him. He just couldn’t spill the guts in front of the Blues and Reds. It’d been hard, keeping back the truth, especially with the adrenalin and the painkillers in his system.

Now Doc had entered the room for a checkup, and Temple was for once nowhere in sight, so now he could finally ask for proper help. Plus he was no longer, like, dying, so now he could focus on getting out of this situation.

“Hey, Doc, I need your help.”

“Well, hopefully not,” Doc replied cheerfully, picking up a thermometer. “Temple said you were improving very well! That’s great! And lucky!”

Right. First he hadn’t died under the Blues and Reds’ attempts to keep him alive. And then he’d survived Doc trying to keep him alive. He had to be some kind of walking miracle.

“Right. Look, we know each other.”

“Of course! I’m the guy who stabbed you with a needle two days ago! Do you remember that?”

“I- Hell yeah, I remember that. Hurt like shit. But that’s not-“

“Ah, good. Phew, I was afraid those pills might have caused you some amnesia. That is one of the side effects.”

“…What?”

Doc waved away his hand. “But not to worry about that! Temple said your fever is gone and-“

“No, Doc, listen. I’m Grif.”

“…Yes? Are you not supposed to be Grif?”

“I am _the_ Grif. From Blood Gulch. We know each other! We’re frie… No, wait, we aren’t friends, but you, I don’t know, you kinda hang around? Sometimes?”

“Oh dear.” Doc picked up a little flashlight and began to shine it into his eyes. It was annoying.

Grif slapped it away. “Stop that. I feel fine. Well, not completely- No, that’s not the point. Look, in the future me and the guys fight against Temple because he’s an evil fucker, and Loco built this weird time machine and it sent me back in time and now I’m stuck here!”

Doc nodded slowly. “Uh-huh.”

Resisting the urge to groan, Grif tried again. “I can prove it. I know everything Grif knows because _I am Grif_. I- Simmons is my best friend and we always argue but it doesn’t matter because we still care in the end and Donut always offers me massages and I always tell him to fuck off and Sarge hates me but that’s okay and I don’t hate him, I don’t hate any of them, not even the Blues, and we actually worked with the Blues because you turned evil when O’Malley got stuck in your head, remember that? Because I remember that because I am Grif and you have to help me. Just- You can get me back to the guys, right? You can help me?”

He'd lost track of time during his sickness. He wasn't sure how long it had been since the last time he saw them, but, well, it was definitely too long. The videos Temple had showed him had been a painful comfort, but Temple, as the fucker he was, had been quick to hide the videos from him again, saying that Grif seemed weirdly obessed. As if he knew anything...

“Oh, Grif,” Doc said, shaking his head sadly.

Grif blinked. “You don’t believe me?”

Doc grabbed his hands as if to comfort him, and that was weird and he tried to pull away but Doc had a surprisingly strong grip.

“I think you are very confused,” Doc let him know. “At least, that’s what Temple said. And I talked with the others and, well, I think some therapy would do you good! I could find you a very good therapist that could listen to you-“

“Are you a therapist?” Grif cut him off harshly.

“Not technically-“

“Well, you’re good enough for me so shut up and listen to me. I am Grif. You are Doc. We both know the Reds and Blues. Do you have a ship or something so we can go find them?”

He’d already begun to leave the bed, legs only shaking a little.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Doc said and began to push him back down. “Why don’t you let me fetch Temple and then we can all settle in a circle and-“

“I am not crazy!” Well, he had been hearing voices but that was not the same thing, right? “Okay, maybe a little, but not like that. Just ask me anything and I can answer for Grif.”

“I-“

“How else would I know it?”

“Grif, I think you should take in a deep breath and calm down. Do you need a bag? I usually use one of those when I need to calm my breathing but then I remember I’m wearing a helmet and that’s not really optimal.” He put a gentle hand on Grif’s thigh. “I think you might have a little strained relationship with reality.”

“Maybe but that’s not-“

“And Temple said he’d be showing you videos of the Reds and Blues and that you’d been very interested in them. Maybe you are getting just a tiny bit confused… Which is understandable! You and Grif have the same voice and color and all that! But I can tell you, you are nothing alike! You are much nicer, so feel proud of that!”

For a moment Grif just stared at him. It took him a while to just find his voice again. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“But if you really trust me like you said, I think some therapy would be good for both of us!”

“No, look, Doc, I- I know we kinda forgot you at times and we may have called you names and shot you at times, but to be fair, you were O’Malley like half of the time and you tried to kill us back, so we’re square there but just-“

“Remember to breathe, Grif,” Doc reminded him. “You are getting an unhealthy purple shade to your face. Not that there’s anything wrong with the color purple.”

“My face,” Grif repeated numbly, realizing this might be the proof. He pointed eagerly at the skin draft. “Look at it! I’m totally Grif from Red Team and-“

“Oh dear, that looks like it must have hurt. Do you remember if your surgeon mentioned anything about brain damage?”

Doc stared at him, awaiting an answer.

Grif stared back.

He didn’t believe him. And why should he? Grif felt like laughing in bitterness. Doc had never seen their faces. At least not Red Team’s. Sarge had a rule about never taking their helmets off in front of enemies, and everyone who wasn’t a Red was an enemy, and Doc was definitely not a Red. Plus, they’d never taking off their helmets that much to begin with.

And now Temple had fed him all sort of crap about him being insane. No one would take him seriously.

It was Grif’s own fault, actually. If he’d just pulled himself together and tried to keep an act up in front of Temple, he might have had more credibility. But nope – he just had to be weak and have voices in his head and be a bitter wreck of a soldier.

Whatever hope Grif might have had a few days ago quickly faded away under Doc’s curious stare.

The medic fetched a notebook and a pen. “But tell me more about that magic time machine, Grif, and how it makes you feel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ironically, I just realized I forgot to tag Doc as a character.


	13. Access Denied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doc tries.

“You owe me a game,” Temple reminded him as he pushed his chair closer to the bed.

Grif glared at the black box he placed on the bedtable, barely managing to not knock the empty glass of water off it.

“I’m sleeping,” Grif said and tried to hide behind his blanket. “Doctor’s orders.”

Temple’s fingers found the edge of the blanket and started to pull it away. “But Doc said you were getting better. And you remember my rules.”

“You know, I’ve never really been a fan of rules.”

“Just an hour ago you complained about being bored,” Temple reminded him as he began to put the pieces on the board.

“Yeah, ‘cause you won’t let me out of the base.”

“Where would you go?” Temple asked, effectively ending that conversation. “White or black?”

Grif blinked tiredly, looking up. “Huh?”

“I know the question is usually red or blue,” Temple said with a smile and he held two kings in front of Grif. “But I ask again: white or black?”

Grif looked at them for a moment, considered his options and eventually sighed as he reached to take the white king. Despite how Temple had tried to warm up the room with a heater, he still had to wear a thick hoodie under the blanket in order to stay warm. Temple wouldn’t tell him where the piece of clothes came from, which was more disturbing than it should be, but Grif was too tired to push the subject. At least he could stay warm now. It was almost ironic that the bases were settled in a desert.

Wrapping the blanket around his shoulders he sat up so he could play Temple’s stupid game. Staring at the ceiling could only be entertaining for so long. The place seriously needed a tv.

“You’ll have to start, then,” Temple said as he placed his black piece on the board. “Do you remember the rules?”

“Yeah,” Grif said, though everything before the sickness remained a bit blurry. He preferred not to think too much about stuff anymore. It just ended up with some depressive thoughts.

And he was too tired to deal with that.

“Alright,” Temple said, leaning over the table to look at the board with focused eyes. “Your move.”

Grif didn’t really have a strategy, which was probably painfully obvious as the other player kept killing his pieces. He just tried to stay alive for the next move. It was more tiring than amusing. But Temple seemed to have fun.

“I’m so glad to see you’re doing better,” he said as he proceeded to kill Grif’s knight. “You gave us quite a scare there.”

Grif just shrugged.

“I’ll try to see if we can avoid fish in the next couple of months.” Temple moved his queen two spots to the right. “Though our options are always scarce. But we’ll set out to gather some resources soon.”

“You going to a mall?” Grif snorted and decided to move a pawn that would probably be killed in a moment.

“Something like that,” he replied smoothly. “Is there anything you would like us to bring back home?”

He froze for a moment. “I thought I’d first gain _anything_ when I beat you?”

“True. But I’m generous enough to see if we can cook up something that suits your taste.”

Grif considered the offer and tried not to let this mouth water as he imagined flying candy bars and snack cakes and all varieties of fast food. But he’d unfortunately lost some weight during the sickness since all substances had preferred to go up his throat instead of soothing his stomach, and that just meant Grif needed a lot of stuffto eat in order to get back what he’d described as his ideal weight to Simmons.

Hell, if Simmons was here, he’d probably allow Grif to eat whatever he wanted.

So he was definitely not going to say no to this offer, despite that voice in the back of his head screaming for him to never touch any food they gave to him ever again.

“Cheeseburger,” he finally said. “With at least two layers of cheese. Or a burrito if you can find one. Ooh, and if you go past _Sammy’s_ , be sure to get some of their pizza.”

Temple leaned his head back to laugh. “So anything greasy and filled with calories?”

Grif rolled his eyes. “You know me so well.”

“It’s a work in progress,” Temple replied with a shrug. “In fact, I don’t even know your first name now when I think about it.”

He sounded amused about this realization and Grif tried his best to avoid eye-contact.

“My name is Mark,” Temple said as an attempt to start this new introduction.

“Grif.”

“C’mon.” He actually seemed annoyed at this point, and pushed his knight forward with more force than necessary. “You could at least be this polite-“

“No one calls me by my first name. It hasn’t been used in like forever. I don’t need it. So just… Grif. Okay?”

“Grif.”

“With two F’s.”

Temple nodded and left it at that. Grif closed the eyes and tried to remember the last time he’d just been called Dexter. He couldn’t quite remember. Maybe Kai had said it back in Blood Gulch. But that had been ages ago.

He opened his eyes again, ready to think about the chess game and not Kai who could be dead for all he knew. But she wasn’t. Of course she wasn’t dead.

“Check,” Temple said with a bit too smug smile.

Grif moved his king to the left.

“Sorry,” Temple said, and proceeded to knock it over with a bishop that had quietly been waiting for the chance. “But I win.”

Yeah, it wasn’t like Grif hadn’t seen it coming. At least Temple had saved him the humiliation of a slow death. “Do I still get the cheese burger?”

“I’ll do my best,” he promised as he picked up Grif’s fallen king. “But of course you now owe me another game.”

“Huh.”

“Well, look at you two getting along,” Doc exclaimed joyfully as he entered the sleeping quarters with his stupid notebook. “So… Tell me, does anybody have to lose change to insult jar today?”

Grif groaned and wondered if he could pull off faking to be asleep. These… _sessions_ with Doc were almost painfully uncomfortable. Doc had always been a pain in the ass, but somehow he’d turned twice as annoying and thrice as useless. It was like Doc had mutated or something.

Hell, he’d even managed to be somewhat competent with his medic skill. As in he hadn’t killed Grif by accident, and that had to count for something. And he’d first brought up orange juice on the second day.

Temple had even somehow managed to get Grif a glass of it, and just that fact had almost made Grif let out a laughter that would be even more bitter than the juice.

While Temple carried away the chess set, Doc made himself comfortable in Temple’s chair, and Grif had the growing feeling that he wouldn’t be able to nap his way out of this session.

“How are we feeling today?”

“Hungry,” Grif replied, eying Temple who had decided to remain in the room, leaning against the wall next to the door.

“Oh, well, that’s fixable! We’re off to a good start today!” Doc wrote something in his notes. “Okay, next question! Grif, have you been seeing any red and blue soldiers today?”

“Uhm… Is that a trick question?” It probably was. He’d replied no yesterday and earned a concerned sound from Doc who then proceeded to ask if he was aware of Temple’s presence in the room right now.

Grif had argued these soldiers were blue and red, and then Doc had asked if colorblindness ran in his family and Grif had responded he didn’t want to talk about his family, and then Doc had started talking about childhood traumas and it hadn’t become better from there.

Then again – if he replied yes now, then Doc would probably think he was talking about hallucinating the Reds and Blues (which Grif never did. He just heard voices. That was something completely different) and then they’d had to talk about that. Urgh.

At least Temple had promised Doc would be leaving soon. They just had to make sure his health wouldn’t take a turn for the worse again.

The fact that he now looked forward to Doc leaving was almost laughable. Well, a lot of things about Grif was laughable. But Doc had gone from being a potential savior to a bigger pain in the ass than Temple at the moment.

And Grif had _tried_. He’d even casually tried to ask Doc about whether he had a ship or something, you know, just _out of curiosity_ , but Doc had just laughed nervously and said he wasn’t leaving anytime soon, and that hadn’t even been a real answer and then Temple had showed up and the conversation had died there.

“Oh, I wouldn’t give you trick questions, Grif! That’d be unprofessional, and we care about good ratings from our customers more than anything!”

Grif wasn’t quite sure if Doc had been fired at some during their adventures but that had to be the case, right? Hadn’t they all been fired? Techinically?

The questions went on for a while and Grif kept quiet for as long time as possible because if he didn’t say a thing, Doc had no answers to comment on, and that saved them both some time.

And then, finally:

“How do you feel, Grif?”

Maybe Doc wanted a _‘yes’_ so he could call it a job well done, or maybe he wanted a _‘no’_ so he could keep asking questions, but Grif’s mouth found an answer by itself and he said:

“Tired.”

He blinked, surprised with himself. He should probably just have said he was fine but here came the truth. That deep core within him that had just seemed to grow ever since mom had left. An exhaustion after trying to handle a world that didn’t give a shit about him. Waiting for life to become good grew tiring in the end.

Or, well, it wasn’t like life hadn’t been _good_. Pleasant stuff happened sometimes. Red Team had turned out to be not that horrible. And Blue Team had turned out to be somewhat likeable assholes as well. And sometimes they managed to live a somewhat calm life despite the standard layer of chaos.

Just… Living. Together. Sci-fi nights with Simmons, Donut’s wine and cheese hours, even Sarge’s plans could turn likeable if you just manipulated him a little bit, so they started a war against the sea or some shit and they’d been allowed to bring swim rings and sunscreen and snacks, and there had been a surprising lack of bullets.

Lopez had Netflix which was the best upgrade in the history of robot upgrades. Caboose reminded him of Kai in some ways. Tucker was cool to hang out with. Carolina had turned out to be surprisingly easy to talk about silly stuff with, like they’d done when Grif had taught her how to smile without looking like someone was stepping on her toes. Wash was kinda nice when he wasn’t trying to kill them. Church, well, he’d been…

That was the thing, right? Church was dead. Because they were lucky of they got one week without something crazy – and not crazy as in the standard crazy that had become the new normal – came and wrecked everything.

Crazy AIs and Freelancers and mercenaries and a fucking war and stupid reporters that wouldn’t let them alone and some asshole doublegangers with a with ego. And when you thought it was over, when you finally quit, things just sucked even worse.

Getting stuck in time was a new level of terrible luck, but that was just the pattern, right? Life never gave you a break.

So, yeah, Grif was pretty damn tired.

He raised his head slightly, awaiting Doc’s response, which would probably be another question he’d never want to answer, but to his surprise it was Temple who spoke.

“Then sleep.” Temple just shrugged as Grif glanced in his direction. “We are a little behind with the work but Buckey has been a pain in my ass so I’m sure he won’t mind taking over your load of the work.”

Grif didn’t remember agreeing to help them out but at least Temple was now giving him time of his not-existing duty.

“That sounds like a good idea!” Doc agreed and closed his notebook.

Grif stayed under his blanket as they left the room.

Temple promised to check on him later, which felt like a threat more than anything.

And when Grif finally dared to leave his bed to check the door he wasn’t even surprised to find it locked.

* * *

“It’s really not that simple,” Doc said nervously, wringing his hands. He always got nervous when Temple raised his voice. Most of the team did.

Temple didn’t really care. It had been a simple question and yet the medic hesitated. “You said you could fix him.”

“Well, his fever is gone-“

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

Doc shifted the weight on his feet. “I am not a psychiatrist-“

“-obviously-“

“-but I think he’s making a lot of progress!” He nodded eagerly to prove his point. “He didn’t even mention the time machine today!”

“That just means he’s learned to stay quiet,” Temple huffed, still remembering the ways Grif would glare at him, even today during their somewhat calm conversation. No, the unjustified hatred was still there. “I don’t care whatever fried his brain, I just need you to fix it. Isn’t there some medication? Pills? Anything with immediate effect.”

Doc shook his head. “Uhm, no. That’s not how it works-“

“I’m not a medic!” Temple hissed back. “I’m not supposed to know how it works – _you are_.”

“I think we should stick with the sessions! He’s a bit shy but it’s just a question of time before he opens up-“

“To you?” Temple snorted and wondered how that would help. Doc was gone most of the time, anyway.

“Well, you’re helping by spending time with him! And I know how patient you are, Temple! It’s admirable, really!” Doc waited for just a moment before continuing, “But I’ve noticed you might be a little… stressed? If you want to talk about it-“

“No.”

“Okay… Then what about that pamphlet-?”

“ _No_.

* * *

Grif woke up when the others returned to their beds after a day’s work. He kept still, eyes closed and heard angry footsteps across the room.  

“Why the fuck does he get to sleep all day while I have to work my well-shaped ass off?”

“ _Shhh_!” someone said a bit too loudly for someone trying to be sneaky. “Temple told us to be quiet-“

“So what? Just because he’s Temple’s favorite doesn’t mean we all have to kiss his ass.”

“I think it’s nice to have a new Biff.”

“Hey, idiot, he isn’t Biff. A few of us actually know that.”

Grif stayed quiet as the Blues went to bed, even when Temple entered the room as the last person, and then the room fell quiet. A few seconds after Grif closed his eyes, he was fast asleep again. Sleeping was, after all, the best thing he could do in his situation.

* * *

Grif woke up to the smell of coffee which was something unexpected. Not necessarily unpleasant – though he’d prefer if he actually got to taste some of the coffee. So he left his bed.

He was the only one left in the sleeping quarters, and he guessed the others had already begun their daily work in the lair. But to his surprise he found the door unlocked, and he stepped into the kitchen where Cronut, of all people, was sitting in a chair reading something from a datapad.

Temple’s datapad. Probably.

Grif narrowed his eyes, remembering how Temple had claimed the device for himself before Grif had even watched all the videos…

He’d almost reached the table before Cronut finally noticed him. “Good morning!” he said cheerfully and turned off the datapad before Grif could take a glance at the screen. “Coffee?”

Grif nodded, pleasantly surprised that his legs hadn’t started to shake yet. In fact, he wasn’t even feeling that lightheaded. Whatever stuff Doc had given him must have worked. Not that he felt like taking on an army or something like that, but it was not nice to have feel cold or nauseous all the time.

 “Temple and the others are working hard in the lair today! It was finally time to lay some pipes! Not that I refused to be a part of the fun, but I felt like my hands were needed elsewhere.”

“Making coffee?”

“Taking care of you,” Cronut corrected him gently.

Grif was happy he hadn’t received his coffee yet or he’d probably have spit it out. “Excuse me?!”

“Well, it’d be a shame for you to feel lonely!” the pink soldier said after handing him a mug. “Besides, you’ve just been ill! Can’t have you fainting on us again with no one there to pick you off the floor.”

“I didn’t faint,” Grif said. “Surge knocked me out.”

“Only the first time,” Cronut argued and picked up the datapad. “I was thinking, maybe you’d help me clean the armors? They get so dusty down there and we’ll be taken off soon, and appearance matter, you know.”

Grif nodded, taking a sip of the hot drink. “Where are you going?”

Cronut froze. “The mall?”

Hadn’t that been Temple’s excuse too? Grif tilted his head. “For the cheeseburgers?”

“Yes. And dry shampoo. My supply is getting low, and we’re all suffering because of it.”

“Cheeseburgers and dry shampoo,” Grif said slowly after another sip. “Huh.”

Cronut straightened out his back. “How about I fetch the armor plates? You can prepare yourself for some hard rubbing – these spots won’t go off easily!”

As the pink soldier left for another room, Grif turned around so he was facing the exit of the base. It wasn’t because he had anywhere to go. He could go die in the desert, but that was honestly not his preferred way to go.

Still, he could not help but check if the door was locked, just to see how paranoid Temple was.

“Scanning,” the female voice from the ceiling said. Grif jumped in surprise. Apparently it needed a moment to consider his face. “…Grif. Access denied.”

“Are you like a tank in a ceiling?”

“I do not understand that question.”

Grif tilted his head. “Can you be bribed?”

“I don’t feel inclined to answer that question.”

“I’m back!” Cronut said as he returned to the room. “Oh, we are going to have our hands full, Grif- Uhm, what are you doing?”

Grif pointed towards the ceiling. “Talking with your weird-ass lamp.”

“Oh, that’s Shelly! I keep forgetting they installed her here. She’s a charming lady, right? She might glitch everyone once in a while, so be wary.”

“Glitch?” Grif glanced at the ceiling that had fallen quiet.

Cronut nodded as he placed various armor plates on the table. “Surge said it was after Biff started fiddling with her.”

“Biff did what?”

Cronut handed him a rag. “Well, Biff said dips on using her to replace our sound system. But then he tried to upgrade her.”

“And how did that go?”

“Well, he said it sorta worked. He managed to install some files.”

“Files?”

“Yes.”

Grif frowned and reluctantly began to work on a leg plate. ”What files?”

“You know,” Cronut giggled before leaning closer to him. “ _Porn_.”

It wasn’t like Grif had never heard that word before. It was just the first time he’d heard someone say it softly in the same tone as the weird whisper at the end of female perfume commercials.

“Huh,” he said.

“Temple will be back later, of course.” Cronut sent him a somewhat warm smile. “He’s really looking forward to your daily chess games! It’s been a while since he’s been in that good mood.”

Grif didn’t reply to that.

Cronut’s smile only faltered for a second. “Do you want some breakfast?”

Well, it wasn’t like Grif could say no to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter. This fucking chapter. My own outline started to rebel against me, and it was a struggle, and I ended up diving some parts into more chapters and just argh. But it should be going smoothly from now on, I am just so happy to see this chapter done.
> 
> I’ve received amazing fanart by stickynotedoodler on tumblr! It’s super awesome and I’m so grateful so be sure to check it out! https://stickynotedoodler.tumblr.com/post/168373663859/i-could-not-resist-making-fanart-of-this-amazing


	14. Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes.

It took Grif a while before he could decide whether Cronut was his prison guard or his babysitter.

Eventually he decided that babysitter was probably the best definition.

The pink soldier was never directly mean but was just there to keep Grif busy and make sure he didn’t leave the base. Which proved to be an easy task. The doors were locked but it wasn’t like Grif was going to leave anyway. Well, he wanted to leave. He just didn’t have anywhere to go.

At least in the base he had a comfortable bed and Cronut let him use the sick card often. Then he’d read his stupid romance short stories next to Grif’s bed. Sometimes he’d even read them out loud. Other times he’d keep himself and Grif busy with manual work, cleaning armors and preparing pipes that were obviously meant to be used for the lair.

Now Cronut had put a toothbrush in his hand and asked him, _kindly_ , to help him with the work.

The pink soldier had the same stupid, wide, perfectly white smile fit for a toothpaste commercial that Donut was always proud of, and he used it on Grif until he grumpily agreed to help him sorting the pipes.

“They’ll be back soon,” Cronut promised, referring to how the rest of the team had left the day before to go on their so-called mall trip. Yeah, Grif wasn’t buying it. He just hoped Temple truly went for supplies instead of Freelancers.

Grif didn’t know how to handle the upcoming murders yet. He should probably lay a plan or something. But, honestly, he hoped he didn’t have to. The others would have to rescue him before all that shit broke loose. They couldn’t be that slow.

“I didn’t know you guys had a ship,” he said, keeping his glance low.

“Well, how else would we get around?”

Grif rolled his eyes. “Is public transportation really that bad?”

That earned him a laugh from Cronut. When the pink soldier fell quiet gain, he turned a pipe over in his hands. “I know we aren’t your old team but I just want you to know that it means a lot to Temple to have you here. It’s been a while since he’s been so happy.”

“Was that Temple’s version of happy?” Grif snorted.

Maybe Cronut pretended not to hear him. “And when Temple is happy, we’re all happy.”

Grif could believe that.

Cronut laid down the pipe to look him in the eyes. “What I am saying is: maybe meet him halfway?”

“Sure,” Grif said, really hoping that Cronut would sense the way too obvious irony in his voice. “I’ll put that on my to do list.”

* * *

“I’m back,” Temple announced, marching into the sleeping quarters with long steps and arms spread out as if he was expecting a welcome.

Grif decided not to give him one. Not truly. “…Am I supposed to clap or something?” he asked while sitting up in his bed with a grunt. He still held onto the impressive amount of blankets the team had gathered for him while he had been freezing to death, but now he mainly just used them for comfort. He tilted his head towards the Blue, noting the lack of shopping bags. “Where the fuck is my cheeseburger?”

“I tried-“

“But failed,” Grif finished for him. “Summary of your life right there.”

Temple had left his helmet in the kitchen, revealing his pursed lips as he stepped further into the room. “However, I did manage to find this.”

A chocolate bar was thrown in Grif direction, though it missed him and fell to the floor instead. Grif turned his head to watch it smack against the tiles.

 “Nice catch,” Temple snorted.

“Dude, your aim was way off.”

While Grif reached down to pick it up and tore off the wrapping in a swift and practiced movement, Temple prepared the chessboard. Grif decided not even to comment on it today. It was apparently just a part of the daily routine.

Simmons would have loved it. Daily chess hour after Donut’s cheese and wine hour. Man, Red Team was weird. Had been weird. Grif wasn’t sure which tense to use.

 “So, that’s all you brought with you home? Snack bars?”

“And some other supplies,” Temple said as he sat down, carefully avoiding a straight answer. “Surge found himself a new weapon. A so-called railgun, I believe.”

“So the shotgun is now officially on retirement? I suppose that is good news.” He frowned. “Wait, how the fuck did you just stumble upon high explosive weapons on a shopping trip? Did you go to an American mall?”

Temple snorted at the idea. “No, I haven’t been to Earth for quite a while.”

“Well, you guys apparently have a fucking ship – thanks for letting me know about that tiny little detail by the way – so why not go home?”

Temple laughed, moving a pawn forward. “What in the world would I gain by going back?”

“Uhm, retirement? Freedom? Endless napping opportunities? A normal, boring, safe life?”

“I don’t want that!” Temple sneered. “I want justice.” He gestured towards Grif’s side of the board, his voice becoming softer, “So let’s play.”

“Any chance you’re going to drop me off on Earth?”

“No,” Temple replied, moving another pawn. For a moment he looked up to gain eye-contact. “And you know what? I don’t think you want to go there.”

He lowered his glance to focus on the pieces. “Well, if I win, you’d have to take me there no matter what.”

Grif didn’t win.

* * *

Grif opened his eyes when something was pressed against his forehead. “Dude,” he said, and pulled away.

Temple withdrew his hand with a calm expression. “Your fever is gone. Good.”

“Where is Doc anyway?” Grif asked because he had, for once, noticed the absence of the medic. Not that he’d had his hopes high about getting a ride off this planet, but still. He should probably ask.

“He got an emergency call. He had to leave.”

Grif blinked slowly. “For the Reds and Blues?”

“Yes.” Temple shrugged. “But it’s okay – we don’t need him. Not right now.”

* * *

When Grif was allowed outside again, he took in a deep breath and looked at the sky. Temple still allowed him to take easy, which Grif planned to use as an excuse to nap, but at least this little bit of freedom allowed him a moment of privacy.

When he could, he snuck away. Not to escape the canyon. He’d finally come to the conclusion he had nowhere else to go.

Instead, he went to his old waiting spot. It’d been so long, he almost couldn’t find the way to it, but he recognized it by the message he’d once written into the rock.

  
Dear dickheads  
Hurry the fuck up  
I’m here  
It sucks

Grif stared at the words, feeling something grow in his chest. He swallowed. There was a bitter taste in his mouth.

He picked up a rock again, using it to smash against a word until it could no longer be seen. With that correction, he added a word left to the message.

 _FUCKING_ ~~Dear~~ dickheads  
Hurry the fuck up.  
I’m here.  
It sucks.

Grif stared at the rock, wondering if they would ever even notice it. If it would help.

_ “It won’t.” _

Without even letting out a sigh, Grif decided not to answer the little voice in the back of his head.

* * *

“You should join us tomorrow,” Temple said.

“Mmmhm,” Grif answered, face pressed against his pillow. Another day had passed, another day without rescue. Surprise, surprise.

Grif fell asleep.

* * *

“Boring,” Grif whined loudly.

Gene put down his datapad on the table, glaring at the orange soldier sitting on the other side. “You were the one who asked what I was reading in the first place!”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, it’s still boring.”

Sometimes Gene looked like he wanted to strangle something but most of the time red splotches would appear on his neck and he would snap after air. Like a nerd. “Geez, you’re annoying,” Gene’s mouth said but his eyes told Grif that he wanted to stab him.

Grif just appreciated the absence of metal in his face. He could only handle that much familiarity. “Someone’s in a bad mood,” he said while eating one of the snackbars Temple had brought home. It wasn’t a cheeseburger, sure, but Grif didn’t complain about the sweet snack.

“I don’t understand how anyone can be that lazy,” Gene told him. “You sleep and you eat all day!”

Grif licked some chocolate off his thumb, knowing it would make the maroon soldier’s eye twitch in annoyance. “Well, I’ve just barely escaped death. My immune system is low. I might be secretly dying without you knowing it. I think I deserved the rest.”

“Well, I’m sick and tired of hearing you complain!” Gene picked up his datapad again, pretending to be busy. “If you’re bored, then maybe you should spend your day actually being useful.”

“You know what, Gene – maybe you’re right.” Grif left his seat, making sure the legs of the chair scraped against the floor with a shrieking sound. “I think I’ll sleep on that idea.”

“But you just woke up from a nap!”

“And now you just filled my mind again! Thanks, dickhead!”

Grif heard the loud sound of Gene growling under his breath as he left the room.

* * *

Grif froze with his queen in his hand. “I’m a pacifist,” he finally said, forcing the word through his lips. He hated it, and it almost made him shudder. Was he even pronouncing it correctly? “That’s the word for it, right?”

“Like Doc, then,” Temple said, raising an eyebrow slightly.

Grif bit the inside of his cheek, despairing over the situation. He wasn’t _that_ lame. “Jesus Christ, no, I’m not like Doc. I just… I don’t want to kill people.”

He could feel Temple’s stare on him. “I’m not asking you to kill people. I’m asking you to move boxes.”

“About that… Did you know I’m allergic to manual work?”

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Temple said and proceeded to put him in checkmate.

* * *

Grif wasn’t helping. Mainly because he was too useless to ever be an actual help. Life had taught him that. But at least now he could use his uselessness to slow down the Blues and Reds.

Temple had brought Grif into the lair again, allowing him to take several breaks as Grif insisted he was still in the state of recovery. The underwater base had grown bigger since the last time Grif had visited, yet still a lot remained to be done. Temple said they were grateful for his help. Grif was going to make sure he’d regret those words.

He didn’t want to be obvious, and he didn’t need to. He just had to keep up the strategy he’d used his entire life.

Play dumb.

“You’re not certified to have a hammer?” Gene asked with a snort. He was hovering over Grif who had decided to use one of his breaks in the corner of the room.

“Nope,” he said, and looked past the maroon soldier to see the window where fish kept swimming by.

“Which diploma would you need?” Gene spat with obvious sarcasm.

Grif shrugged. “Hey, don’t ask me – I was studying philosophy.” At least, he’d thought of doing so. Back when he was young and pretended that he still had the power to make his own choices, all while trying to get by working two jobs and somehow pretend he was still an average student.

The draft had robbed him of every choice. He would have liked to go to college, he thought. Yeah, maybe philosophy. He had read some books once, by own choice, because the big questions made him curious.

“What?” Gene asked with obvious mockery in his voice. Simmons had had the same sneer in his voice, sometimes, back in Blood Gulch. “You didn’t want a job?” Yeah, of course Gene would make fun of humanists.

Grif looked into his visor and replied without stuttering, “Do I look like a person who’d want a job?”

* * *

Surge was perhaps a bit too happy about his new weapon. He carried around everywhere – but it didn’t say much, since the Blues and Reds were always armed. But Surge held his gun with a touch so gentle he might as well be caressing it.

“Look at this beauty,” he said and practically held Grif at gunpoint so he could admire it. Grif froze, staring into the barrel. “Could shoot a man’s head right off. Even a thick-skulled idiot like you.”

Grif said nothing.

“Can’t wait to use it on some UNSC bastards,” Surge then said and then leaned his head back to laugh.

Grif stared at him.

When the laughter died out, Surge looked at him before patting his shoulder. “Keep up the good work, son, and you might get to inherit the old shotgun.” Then he walked away, towards the lair, humming a happy melody.

Grif blinked.

* * *

Grif didn’t dream often any longer. It probably shouldn’t be an annoyance. He did appreciate the peaceful sleep he was getting. Getting through the entire night without screaming was _awesome_ , especially now when he was surrounded by assholes who’d probably just use it as an excuse to dope him with painkillers.

Which would probably be worse than assholes telling him to shut up because Grif’s screaming was ruining their beauty sleep or just ignoring him because Red Team didn’t talk about stuff.

Maybe.

Grif woke up every day with Doc’s stupid pamphlet on his bed table, that told him twenty effective ways to _ground himself_. As if Grif needed any more connections to this place.

It also told him how to deal with that little voice inside your head, the one ruining your self-esteem and causing you to make stupid choices.

Grif wasn’t crazy. Not the way that everyone else seemed to think.

And the voices in his head just mocked him harder when he actually sat down and read the page.

* * *

“And this is where we’ll have the brig.”

Grif looked at the spot on the blueprint where Temple was pointing at. That was where his friends had been trapped in the future, where Temple had brought Grif too, and where Tucker had shouted at him and Caboose had cried.

“Do we really need a brig?” Grif asked, trying to sound casual. “We could have another food storage there.”

Temple glared at him. “Pacifist to the core.”

“I agree with the numbnut,” Surge said to everyone’s surprise. “No brig.”

“Huh-“

“Make room for a firing squad instead. Best and quickest way to deal with prisoners, I say!”

Grif widened his eyes. “Actually, you know what, I changed my mind. I’m voting for the brig. Brig is good. Let’s build a brig.”

* * *

“Scanning.”

“Why do you keep doing that?” Grif asked the ceiling. This was the sixth time he’d been scanned today.

“Grif.”

Surprise. Surprise. He was still Grif. Surprise?

He frowned. “Are you gonna do that every time you see me?”

“Positive.”

When Temple walked into the room, Grif pointed upwards with his thumb. “Your ceiling lamp hates me.”

“Don’t mind her. She’s a glitchy piece of shit.” Temple tilted his head backwards. “But she’s the best speaker system in this canyon. Aren’t you, Shelly?”

“Positive. Do you want me to play the monologue soundtrack?”

“Not yet. Another day of work lies ahead. You know what they say – no rest for the wicked.”

He then left the room with a cheerful bounce in his steps. Grif knew the lair was soon finished, despite his attempts to slow down the process. Temple had even talked about sleeping down there soon.

Grif sighed, running a hand across his face.

His plan would have worked if the others just did their part. He only did this to survive, to make sure he could stay in the canyon until the portal would appear.

Not his fault the others were wasting everyone’s time. Heh, and they called him lazy.

Now it had been… Well, long enough for Grif to lose track. He tried not to think too much about it, but the fact that his new daily life had become a routine by this point just meant it had been _too long_.

Maybe if-

“I was smart once.”

Grif blinked, looking upwards again. Even with her monotone voice, Shelly somehow managed to have a sad tone to it.

He frowned. To be fair, he’d just thought her as a lower class AI since the Blues and Reds were apparently the originals and therefor so much simpler and worse than his actual teammates. Sheila had had _a lot_ of personality. Maybe too much at times.

“Just what did Biff to do you? Did he stick a screwdriver up your memory drive?”

It was silent for a moment.

“Negative.”

“C’mon.”

“Scanning.”

“ _Seriously_?!”

“Grif.”

“I’m leaving,” he told her sternly and proceeded to catch up with Temple who had been waiting for him outside the base.

* * *

Grif managed to sneak away without anyone seeing him. Even if they noticed, he’d just say Gene had ordered him to pick up some extra screws or shit like that. He could totally pull it off. He’d earned their trust like that.

Because Grif was smart. And patient.

He could pull it off.

The message was still there, though some of the carvings had been slightly filled with sand. He brushed it off and wondered what to change. He wasn’t sure what would work, but he just had that need to say something. Was this Neanderthals’ ways texting? If Neanderthals had time machines.

He blinked, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. Stupid sand. Making his eyes burn.

He just…

He just wanted…

Simmons.

Grif picked up the rock again, adding one word, and then smashed it against certain letters until they were nothing more but scratches in the rock’s surface.

 _ ~~FUCKING~~_ ~~Dear~~ dick ~~heads~~  
Hurry the fuck up PLEASE  
I’m here  
~~It sucks~~

* * *

The whales were kinda awesome. A pretty sight, at least. Grif could stare at them the entire day. It was a good way of not doing work.

“Hey, Grif with two F’s,” Loco said as he walked past him, carrying a heavy crate. “Are you feeding the fish again?”

“No.”

“Okay. Come tell me when you are. I love feeding my fish friends.”

“Will do.”

Grif heard him walk away without moving his head. He stared directly into the glass, watching the sea creatures swim by. The dark light just gave it a gloomy vibe. It wasn’t like back home in Hawaii where the water was almost aqua, and he’d been feeling a sense of freedom whenever he’d been in the water. But that was a long time ago. Maybe he remembered it wrong.

At some point his eyes started to focus on his reflection in the glass instead. Slowly his face seemed to appear, tinted in a blue color from the water. He supposed he looked the same as always. The bruising had faded a long time ago, but there were still bags under his eyes. Maybe they had just always been there. He couldn’t remember a time where he hadn’t felt tired.

The skin draft was still there, and he let out a sigh of relief as he let a finger trail down the thick line that separated the two tones of skin. That was his proof against everyone else who believed him to be crazy. The only thing he could stare at and know was real. Doc had excused everything else, his memories and the voices in his head, with a confused sense of reality.

But this… This was physical and real. It was Simmons. A part of Simmons’. The only thing left, apparently. But it was there, and he could see and feel it, and he knew how he’d gained it, even though Temple and the others believed it was from the massacre at his former base. It was real, and he wasn’t crazy. The others were wrong.

Simmons was real, and then Grif had to be real, because Simmons was a part of him, and it was Simmons’ heart beating inside his chest and it was Simmons who filled his memories and it was Simmons’ voice that kept whispering in the back of his head and the real Simmons wasn’t here, Simmons was gone, and Grif was waiting for Simmons, but Simmons wasn’t coming-

Grif’s fingers suddenly curled around the screwdriver Temple had equipped him with, and with a strength that surprised himself he slammed in into the green eye, Simmons’ eye, that was staring back at him in the reflection.

The screwdriver remained in the glass, cracks starting to spread like spiderweb from its end. Grif stepped back, blinking as he realized what he’d done.

 _Oh_.

Well, his job was to sabotage the work here, even though his efforts so far hadn’t been that successful. But this… Flooding some rooms would seriously cost some damage.

He took one last glance at the growing cracks, and then quickly walked out of the room, whistling innocently. He led the door slid close behind him, knowing Temple and the others had ordered been them to be waterproof. But still, he’d rather be some rooms away before the glass broke.

He kept his glance low, trying to walk quickly but still looking somewhat casual and definitely not guilty. He knew Temple had managed to put up some security cameras last week, though he wasn’t sure if Gene had managed to get them working yet.

His plan would have worked, had it not been for-

“Hey, Grif with two F’s.”

Grif froze, knowing exactly who that stupid voice belonged to and turned around to see Loco in the other end of the hallway, heading towards the door he was seriously not supposed to open.

It took him some seconds to consider, and maybe that time had been too long, but in the end he decided not to rush towards the nearest exit but instead try to grab Loco and drag him with him to safety.

It was probably a shit decision seeing how Loco was the enemy (right?) and was bound to die in the end anyway (…right?) but, holy crap, he was also an innocent fucking idiot too stupid to stay alive by himself, just like Caboose, and –

It didn’t really matter in the end.

Loco pushed the door open and the water swept inside with enough force to make it _fucking hurt_ as it hit him. He remembered surfing back home, how a wave would push him off his board, and he tried to tell himself that this was just the same thing, even though the water was _fucking cold_ and dark and he couldn’t decide which direction was up and down as he moved his arms and legs.

For a brief second he tried to comfort himself that his helmet was supposed to be waterproof – not that it mattered since his helmet was also supposed to have air condition and Grif had been drowning in his sweat since Basic – but then he remembered his helmet was gone, buried in the sand somewhere, because Grif had been an idiot and thrown it away in a drunken rage.

And that was the conclusion to everything. Right? Grif was an idiot. That was why things always went wrong.

Because Grif couldn’t figure out how to be a good son and then he failed at being a good brother and then he never managed to be a good soldier, and he hadn’t been a good Red, and in the end he also proved he was a shitty friend because he couldn’t even manage to stay with his group. And _whatever_ he’d had with Simmons, whatever Grif had fooled himself into thinking they had, well, he’d ruined that too.

And he’d wondered why they hadn’t come for him.

Grif was good at holding his breath. Before the draft he’d spend time at the beaches, going underwater and staying there, enjoying how the water muffled his hearing and blurred his sight, and he’d look through the water towards the sun and decide that the world actually was kinda beautiful. Sometimes. He missed Hawaii.

Eventually his mouth opened and he tasted salt, all the way down his throat, and it kinda stung and the water was cold against his face and from the corner of his vision he saw something blue but he couldn’t quite reach and –

_ “You do realize this is your fault, right? As always.” _

It never really mattered in the end.

* * *

When he came to, something was hitting his chest and someone was yelling and –

“…mouth to mouth…”

“Nope,” Grif said, or tried to say. Some sort of noise left his sore throat, but it probably just ended as groan. He sat straight up, to the surprise of everyone, especially Temple who had been leaning over him.

Their foreheads smashed together and the world went black again.

* * *

Grif didn’t break Temple’s nose which was a shame. But he didn’t die, and that was good. Loco didn’t die either, which was also good. And Temple had never managed to use Cronut’s advice about the mouth to mouth method, and Grif also saw that as a personal victory.

Temple had managed to close one of the doors to dam up the water and they’d then activated the emergency waterlocks installed in the walls to empty the room for the water. Apparently, Gene had managed to get that system up and running. The first room was still ruined, though. Temple wanted to double secure all the glass windows from now on.

Grif had woken up in his bed, listening to Temple yelling about how that idiot should never be allowed to work without supervision.

It’d taken him a while before he understood that he was talking about Loco, whom the others blamed for the entire accident.

It’d been a while since Temple had called Grif for an idiot. He couldn’t remember the last time it’d happened.

Grif buried his head under the blankets, and let the others yell at Loco.

* * *

Grif had put some thought into this, and now it finally seemed like he was succeeding. Just a few more moves and he’d have Temple cornered, and then he would finally win.

They’d played enough times for Grif to figure Temple would move his knight next, and when that happened Grif would finally be able to call chess. Then, if things went according to plan, he just needed Temple to make one mistake and he’d be put in checkmate.

Problem was that Temple didn’t often make mistakes.

His fingered lingered on his knight for a moment before Temple smiled and looked up at Grif. “You’re getting better.”

“Meh,” Grif said and wondered what he would ask for when he’d win. He’d had ideas. Now he wasn’t sure.

“ _But_ ,” Temple said, that smug tone dripping from his voice, “I’m afraid I have to disappoint you.” Instead of grabbing his knight, Temple lifted his king, to Grif’s big surprise, and with his other hand Temple lifted his rook from the board’s left corner, and then he let the two pieces swap place.

Grif stared. “What the fuck was that? You’re cheating. That’s totally cheating – you can’t move twice!” He had at least learned that much about chess by this point.

“It’s called castling,” Temple explained. “And it’s a legitimate move.”

“Bullshit,” Grif said and crossed his arms.

“I’m afraid I know the rules of this game a little bit better than you,” Temple said and made the next move.

Grif didn’t win so it didn’t really matter what he wanted to ask for.

* * *

When Grif helped carrying Red Team’s weapon collection to the lair, he managed to slip away with a single pistol. Gene didn’t notice, struggling under the weight of two rocket launchers. Temple had spotted so-called suspicious activity in the gulch, and they were now moving down to the lair permanently from now on.

Grif wondered how he would sleep with fish staring at him.

“Grif?” Temple called out as he heard a series of gunshots echo through the now quiet canyon.

But he barely had the time to get his heart racing before Grif emerged from between some rocks near the cliff wall. “Just me,” he said, holding up a pistol. “Wanted to do some shooting practice.”

“ _Why_?”

"Because I wanted to see if my aim was worse than yours. And, by the win, I'd totally win in a shooting contest."

Grif threw the gun at him, and Temple caught it with a surprised expression. He raised an eyebrow as Grif crouched down to pick up a crate they needed to move. “I have to take you up on that someday,” Temple said before finding his own box.

They walked to the hidden entrance, Grif in the front with Temple staring at his back. Grif looked out at the canyon, blinking twice, before the elevator closed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 ~~FUCKING Dear dickheads~~  
~~Hurry the fuck up PLEASE~~  
~~I’m here~~  
~~It sucks~~ ~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all had a wonderful New Year!
> 
> Anyone remembering that rock Simmons noticed had been shot numerous times?
> 
> IMPORTANT! I just found out (a little less than an hour after this chapter was posted) that something when wrong when it was uploaded - the last version of the message is supposed to be all scratched over, unlike before when only the first sentence was scratched over. This has been corrected now. Sorry if it was the cause of any confusion.


	15. Catch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temple doesn't laugh.

The lair always seemed blue. It’s weird, after so many years in Red Bases where everything would be red by default, and if it wasn’t red, then Sarge would be sure to color it when he got his hands on it.

They lived down here now, and they all shared a big room in the sleeping quarters. No more color dividing. Temple said they were past the norms given to them by Project Freelancer. One big team now.

The beds were lined up near the walls, and Grif got his wish by getting the one in the corner. When he wanted to, he could roll over and stare at the wall. Which was very handy, especially since Temple’s bed was the one next to him, and when the others had fallen asleep and Grif was still awake, he could feel Temple’s eyes on him.

They still played chess because Temple was a weird man with weird hobbies and even weirder obsessions. He’d prepared a board near one of the big windows, talking about how he’d noticed that Grif liked staring at the water.

It wasn’t like he _liked_ it. It was just a mind-numbing activity. Grif kept reminding himself of how it was like the waters back on Hawaii, and that seemed to make it more interesting. He’d loved water. Still, it didn’t help with that constant feeling of being surrounded by possible doom from all sides.

Temple called the place safe. No way for anyone to find them.

How _great_.

He hadn’t managed to win yet. That wasn’t really a surprise. Not at this point.

And yet, today he tried something new. It’d been almost too easy to slip back some of his dead pieces back onto the board. When he’d been younger he’d learn to make wallets mysteriously disappear from strangers’ pockets. His quick fingers could grant him a win today.

When Temple looked away for a second, he quickly snatched his black rook. He hoped Temple didn’t have any strategies planned that involved that piece.

“You read philosophy?” Temple suddenly asked.

Grif raised an eyebrow and clutched the piece harder under the table. The rook was cold against his fingers. “Sometimes. Why?”

“I know a little. Take Bentham for example. Greatest happiness of the greatest number. It might take some sacrifices, but the world is better off without even a trace of Project Freelancer.”

“Kant,” Grif replied, “said humans should be treated as ‘ends’ – not as ‘means’. Which makes your whole idea of a killing spree morally wrong. Which it is, by the way. ‘cause you’re killing innocent people.”

“I have done no such things,” Temple said dryly. “And it seems like Project Freelancer didn’t follow your moral. They certainly used you as a mean to an end.”

“Yeah, well, I always knew those guys were dickheads. You’re just declaring yourself a dickhead as well.”

Temple shrugged. “I can appreciate your efforts but you really should hand me it back.”

It took a second before Grif realized he was talking about the rook. He slowly placed it on the table, scowling. “I didn’t think you’d need it.”

“I probably wouldn’t have, but I can’t just tolerate you cheating and ruining the fun.”

When had the game ever been fun? Grif opened his mouth to argue, but was cut off by a voice from the ceiling: “Scanning.”

“Seriously?” Sometimes he almost forgot that Shelly had been installed down here instead. When she finally spoke to him it was always the same goddamn sentence.

“Grif.”

“You should get her fixed,” Grif said, lowering his glance to stare at Temple instead.

He just let out a small sigh. “I wish I could.”

* * *

It wasn’t that bad, he supposed. Sure, the others were crazy and pretty mean and they hated him and they had murderous tendencies, but at least he wasn’t tortured or shit like that. He had access to food (though fish had really started to become a tiring meal) and a bed and he wasn’t dying. He wasn’t being saved either, but oh well.

He tried not to think much of it in the beginning. Everyone was focused on getting the base done, finishing the last room and rebuilding the parts that Loco, ahem, had apparently flooded. Some of the pipes kept leaking no matter what, though. Nothing like small puddles to remind you of how close death always was to you.

But then Temple’s “mall trips” had begun to occur more and more often, and how Cronut had started to complain about bloodstains on their armor which just refused to be washed off.

They were murderers. It was a fact, and it was becoming harder and harder to ignore.

But looking at Loco humming to himself, offering to share his screwdriver with Grif.

He tried to imagine Loco stabbing someone to death, and he ended up shaking his head. That was like… Caboose going berserk. Which had happened before. And sure, Caboose had killed. A lot, actually. Some of them had been mistakes, and most of the times he’d just done what the rest of them had been doing – protecting their friends.

“Doesn’t killing bother you?” he asked Loco one day. He was the only one of the Blues and Reds he could ask freely. The others would immediately try to deny any murdering going on. Plans to take over the world? Never heard of those.

Loco handed him the screwdriver and tilted his head thoughtfully. “Sometimes you have to kill people. Or they will kill you and your friends. And then your friends become very sad, and then you’re sad because your friend is dead. I don’t want you to die, Grif with two F’s.”

“That’s nice, Loco,” he said and added another reason to his mental list of why Temple sucked. You didn’t trick people like Loco and Caboose to become terrorists.

And of course the blue soldier had to ask in an innocent voice, “Do you want me to die?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Grif said and tightened his hold on the screwdriver.

* * *

 “Oh man, that’s just pathetic.”

Temple frowned when he sensed Grif’s presence behind him, looking over his shoulder. He tried to close the tabs quickly but he was too late.

“’ _How to do an evil laughter_ ’? _‘Twenty synonyms for evil_ ’. This is just sad. You have no idea of what you’re doing.”

“I am just improving my rhetorical skills,” he replied dryly. “There’s no shame in that.”

“You don’t know how to be evil,” Grif said, sitting down in the empty chair before placing his feet on the desk, right on top of the pile of paper that Temple had neatly stacked. “Or, well, _you do_ – you just don’t know how to be good at it.”

“It’s just research.”

“Hey, wanna practice your evil laughter? I’m all ears.”

Temple pushed his feet off his papers. “Stop mocking me.”

“Are you an evil cackle guy or a deepthroat one?”

“ _Deepthroat_?!”

“You know what I mean. I’m not Cronut. Geez.”

Temple spun his chair around so he could stare at him. “What are you doing here? You’ve never come to my office before.”

“Because offices mean paperwork and a lot of other boring shit. Plus, I hate you. Let’s not forget that fact.”

Temple tilted his head. “So why are you here?”

“Gene is chasing me around the entire base. Says something about me leaving dirty footprints on the floor? Not my fault the puddle of oil was there to begin with. So I figured you could hide here. Say I’m busy working.”

He crossed his arms. “Busy with what?”

“Listening to you laugh. Do you want me to tell a joke, or is your entire plan a big enough joke in itself?”

With a sigh he opened his tabs again, ready to resume working. “ _Funny_.”

“I don’t hear you laugh.”

“It’s not about the laughter. It’s about the metaphors. The quotes. Take the great Shakespeare, for example.”

“Shakespeare?”

He rose from his seat, lifting his chin before he stared down at him. Grif stared back unimpressed, even when Temple made his voice deeper and said, “ _Like madness is the glory of life_.”

“Are you referring to me?” Grif said while rolling his eyes. His so-called insanity was not exactly a secret. Temple often referred to his madness to explain why the others should go easy on him, while Gene used it as a reason why Grif was useless. Grif just wanted to use it as an excuse to nap.

He supposed that living down here with them did make him crazy in some way.

“Perhaps,” Temple said with a shrug.

Grif raised an eyebrow. “Dude, you’re the one googling how to laugh like a villain. You have no idea of what you’re doing.”

“Do you?”

Grif kept his mouth shut after that question. 

* * *

The sunlight was so strong he had to lift his hand to shield his eyes. It’d been a while since he’d been on the surface. He wasn’t sure how long it’d been exactly.

The light turned softer, and he blinked before realizing the sun was setting in the distance. The sky was red. It was a strange change after having waters as his surroundings.

Grif walked slowly, unsure of what would happen next. Temple had told him to meet him in the Eastern part of the canyon, behind some of the rocks. For a moment he’d been filled with soothing relief – remembering that he’d deleted the message in case that was the thing Temple wanted to discuss.

But _his spot_ , the place where the portal had once appeared, had been in the Northern end.

Which meant he had no idea what would happen now.

He certainly hadn’t expected to see two beach chairs around a campfire as he passed by the rock. The flames were rising lazily towards the sky and a soft orange color was reflected on the nearby surfaces.

“Catch.”

Grif looked up just in time to have a can of beer flying past his head. He raised an eyebrow towards Temple who was looking a bit too smug. His helmet was off.

“You need to be quicker,” he said, opening his own can with the flick of a finger.

“ _Right_. I totally forgot how you have _the best_ aim in the canyon.” He bent down to pick up the beer, barely taking the time to brush off the sang. “Where the hell did you get those?”

“Stacked away behind some crates. I figured you’d enjoy it.”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I had like real beer? Probably a military life minus two years.”

“What?”

Grif waved him off. “Private joke.” He emptied the can in one gulp, wiping foam from his lips with the back of his hand. “This is not what I expected.”

Temple moved closer to the fire. “What did you expect?”

“You lining me up or something? Like, taking me out in the back and shoot me.”

He rolled his eyes. “ _Why_ would I do that?”

Grif sighed. “Right. You don’t kill like that. You just lock people up.” The taste the beer had left in his mouth suddenly wasn’t that pleasant anymore. Too bitter.

“I do have some unfortunate news,” Temple revealed after another sip.

“Huh?”

“I’m afraid we’ll be quite busy from now on. We will be leaving more often.”

Grif snorted, shaking his empty can. “How’s that unfortunate news?”

“I know you don’t prefer solitude.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“So,” Temple continued firmly, “as always we’ll leave you with some company. But I need Cronut with us on this trip.”

 _“You’re leaving me with Gene_?”

His lip twitched. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

 _Manage_. Sure, Grif could do that. He’d been doing that for, what, like a year now? His entire life felt like just managing. Gene was… a prick, to be honest. Too obsessed with rules, always trying to get the attention of Surge or Temple. Oh, and he was always bitching at Grif, nagging him about how he didn’t work hard enough or how he always screwed up.

Cronut had said Gene was just jealous of Grif being Temple’s favorite. Which just really hadn’t improved Grif’s mood.

So not only would he be left behind, useless and feeling guilty about being unable to stop this shitshow – he had to be stuck with Gene and his annoying voice. It was like someone drilling through his skull, always leaving him with a headache. If Gene would only shut up…

“Fine. But if you happen to find Gene mysteriously dead in the middle of a hallway, know it was probably a stroke. Those things happen.”

“You won’t kill him,” Temple said while looking into the fire. “You don’t kill. Remember?”

“You’re just bitter that I won’t come along with you.”

“We are defending ourselves.”

“I’m not stupid, Temple. Okay, I’m not _that_ stupid,” Grif corrected himself. “I see shit, alright. Stop saying you’re going to the mall when Cronut doesn’t even bring back decaf coffee. You’re not even trying to pretend anymore.”

Temple’s lips had turned thin, though he still tried to keep up a smile. “You know, I called you out here for another reason.”

“Please say this isn’t a date because I’m starting to feel very awkward.”

“I got you this,” Temple said and reached behind the cooler he’d brought along. “In case you’d change your mind. I understand why you wouldn’t charge into things without proper protection.”

And then he placed an orange helmet in Grif’s hands.

He’d preferred a new can of beer.

Grif looked it over. It wasn’t a new helmet. The orange wasn’t bright, as if freshly painted, and as he turned it over he noticed that there were still plenty of scratches. But still. It didn’t have scrape on the left top, back from one of the many times Sarge had tried to shoot him in the head. “This isn’t mine,” he concluded.

“I’m afraid yours seems lost to the sand. When you’re reckless and throw your stuff around, you often lose it. But I’m sure this will fit.”

Grif stared down at Biff’s old helmet. He could connect the dots. “No way, dude. Keep your creepiness to yourself. I don’t need this.”

He held it towards Temple who refused to take it back. “You don’t need to come with us. You just kept moaning about your stupid helmet. See it as a gift.”

Sure, Grif had been complaining about his lack of helmet. Mainly because it was unfair that the others could hide their expressions behind a visor while Grif had to keep up a poker-face constantly. Not that he couldn’t do it – gods know he’d practiced his careless expression his entire life. But a helmet could save him some effort.

“I don’t want it,” he said and dropped it so it landed in the sand.

Temple tilted his head as he watched it fall before looking upwards again to meet Grif glance. His fists were clenched now and he hissed, “ _Why_ do you always have to-“

“I’m not Biff!” Grif said, throwing his hands up in the air. “ _Surprise_. I know this has to be groundbreaking news to you, but I’m not a replacement sent to please you.”

“You don’t _please_ me,” Temple hissed back. “In fact, right now I’m very, very angry.”

“Good! And not my problem, by the way. I don’t deal with feelings and I must definitely don’t talk them about so I’m just gonna leave. Thanks for the beer,” he added bitterly before walking back to the hidden entrance.

He only looked over his shoulder once, watching Temple angrily kick sand at the fire before picking up the orange helmet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really simplified that big philosophical conversation (I absoluately love philosophy) but I really wanted Grif to discuss some philosophers as I've always headcanoned him liking philosophy.
> 
> Thank you for all the support!


	16. Don't Kill Your Grandfather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temple gets drunk.

“What are you doing here?”

Grif ignored Gene’s question, and instead he went directly for the fridge, grabbing the nearest soda. Treats like these were rare, but Temple had begun to bring back more exciting supplies whenever he went on his trips.

One of the few good things about Temple leaving more often now.

“Midnight snack,” Grif replied and tried to leave the room, heading for the bedroom. At least all this meant he could fall asleep without Temple staring at him tonight.

“But you shouldn’t be here! You should be with Temple!”

“Dude, I’m not his handler. Though he definitely needs one.”

Gene left his chair, placing himself in the hallway entry to block his path. “But you’re supposed to be with him! He invited you!”

“Why the fuck do you care? It’s not a fucking date. Temple’s being an ass again, so I left because unlike you fuckers, I didn’t sign up to deal with him.” He took a step forward, trying to force Gene away. Had it been Simmons, this would either be the time where he would back away or he’d threaten to throw some of Grif’s favorite snacks out. Simmons had been good at getting his way like that. It wasn’t like Grif ever got what he wanted…

But Gene didn’t back off. Maybe all that murdering was starting to boost his confidence. “But it’s _your_ job to keep Temple happy.”

“Okay, what the actual fucking fuck?! That’s not in my job description. In fact, I don’t even have a job description. I don’t work for you. Or with you!”

“Uh, yeah. You _do_. In fact, keeping Temple happy is the only sorta thing you’re actually doing here. I’ve seen you with that screwdriver, and you’re tearing down this place more than you’re building it.”

Grif narrowed his eyes. Gene’s voice was like a mocking snort. Too familiar. “You’re the one who wants to kiss Temple’s ass. He’s all yours, buddy.”

Murderer or not, Gene was still a lanky little piece of shit, and when Grif marched forward, his shoulder pushed the maroon soldier away.

“I’m not kissing his ass!” Gene called after him, like some last-minute insult. “I’m kissing Surge’s ass! I’m just sending Temple perfectly written resumes to make him consider a possible promotion!”

“How is that not kissassing?” Grif called from over his shoulder.

Gene yelled back at him, “It’s not! It’s investing in your future! You should try it! Oh wait – you don’t have one!”

Grif set his jaw and kept going forward, slamming the door open what he reached the bedroom. For a moment he forgot that he wasn’t alone – it felt like he was alone most of the time – but then a figure jumped from one of the beds.

“Are we playing capture the flag again?” Loco asked him, eyes widened in alert. “Because I don’t like that game.”

“No, we’re not playing catch the flag,” Grif snorted while tearing off all his armor pieces with practiced ease. By the time he reached his bed, he was ready to just drop down dead in it.

“Good.” Loco tilted his head. “Are you being crazy again? Buckey says you’re crazy a lot.”

Grif pulling his blanket up to his chin. “Maybe.”

“That’s okay,” Loco told him, returning to his own bed as well. “Buckey says I’m crazy too!”

* * *

Being woken up by a shotgun forcefully pushing you out of your bed was, sadly, a familiar procedure in Grif’s life. He landed with a grunt, hitting the floor face first, and it took him some seconds before he tried to push himself upwards. “For fuck’s sake, Surge! What – am I late? Holy shit – is this place leaking again? Hey, Temple already said one of the life jackets belong to me.”

“Dude, what did you say to him?” Buckey asked him, calming watching the scene while resting against the wall.

Grif pushed Surge away, ignoring the angry grunt, and finally stood up. “ _What_? Geez, don’t you guys know how to wake someone up without kicking him?”

“Temple is freaking out,” Gene explained coldly. “ _You_ freaked him out. That’s like the opposite of your job.”

“Dude, how many times do I have to tell you? I’m not-“

Gene leaned down to shove a paper into his face. Grif had to blink a couple of times before he realized it was indeed a job contract. Perfectly written by a hand obviously trained in calligraphy. How typical of Si- _Gene_.

“There,” Gene said and pointed at one of the sections. “A job description. Go fix Temple.”

“What the fuck is wrong now?” he asked.

The Blues and Reds shared a glance, eyes meeting through the visor. For a moment no one seemed to look at Grif who was clenching his fists, eyes narrowing as he realizes Temple was the only one missing in the room and that was probably a bad sign.

“Just go talk to him,” Buckey said, gesturing towards the door.

“Oh, fuck you!”

“March, son,” Surge huffed, pressing the shotgun against his back again.

Grif sent him a sour glance. “Where is he?”

“Where you left him,” Buckey replied with a shrug. “So that’s just _great_.”

“I don’t like it when Temple is mad,” Loco muttered said. He kept shifting the weight on his feet, and then he lifted his head, looking straight at Grif.

Ah, fuck it. Grif rubbed the back of his neck. “So how did you deal with his hissy fits before I got stuck here?”

“Uhm…”

There was a pregnant pause in the room.

“Well, today has always been a bad day for him,” Cronut said in a cheerful voice that was lowered when he continued, “For all of us, I dare say. But chances are you can make today a little easier for him.”

“I don’t think he wants to see me right now,” Grif told them, recalling what had transpired last evening.

“Well, he doesn’t want to see any of us, and he probably won’t shoot you. Probably,” Gene replied, nudging Grif into the hallway. “Just agree with whatever he says and get it over with.”

“What the fuck is up with this day anyway?”

“Anniversary of Biff’s death,” Gene replied dryly. “Not that you care.”

For some reason it didn’t really shock Grif. It was just another shitty timing to be added to his pile of shitty luck. _Of fucking course_. He didn’t even bother to sigh.

* * *

The elevator ride seemed unusually long today. Even longer than last night. And back then, he’d thought he was heading for his own execution. He’d been wrong.

But now his gut was more worried than ever about marching towards his executioner.

The sun blinded him when he reached the surface, and he walked forward with a hand raised to shield his eyes. He kept going forward, even with his limited vision, knowing that he might as well get it over with.

Temple was where he left him. The campfire had died out by now but Temple didn’t seem to care. He was resting in one of the beach chairs, turned so he was facing Grif as he came closer.

Grif raised an eyebrow when he saw all the opened cans of beer surrounding the Blue soldier. He’d taken his helmet off in order to drink, revealing the bags under his eyes, even worse than usual.

“Looks like you had fun,” Grif said when he came close enough to meet Temple’s eyes. They were clouded with alcohol and anger.

“Griffff,” Temple slurred, smiling in a way that didn’t really look happy. “You came back.”

“The others say you should chill the fuck down and go to bed or something. Looks like you need it.”

“Sit,” Temple said, voice casual but firm, as if ordering a dog. Maybe it was that insulting tone that kept Grif upright. Temple just tilted his head, letting out a bitter laugh. “You’re so fucking ungrateful.”

“That’s my charm,” Grif said while looking around, hoping to find a filled can that he could enjoy himself. Not that the idea of drinking with Temple was that pleasant, but Grif would take whatever beer he could get his hands on.

That had probably been the point of the whole thing. Temple hoping for Grif to stay last night, to get drunk and chat and go through midnight together, using Grif as some worn orange security blanket to get through the day.

“And you’re stupid too.”

“And your insults are just so clever today,” Grif snorted. After a moment of consideration he eventually sat down in the empty chair – not because Temple had told him to do, but because if he had to deal with shit, he might as well rest his legs.

“You’re still waiting,” Temple tells him, eyes narrowed. “You don’t wanna be here. Oh, boo-fucking-hoo. I don’t give a shit about your old team, but either they left you or they died. Because that what every friend will do. Either they leave. Or they die. And guess what – they’re not coming back. So beauuutifully simple.”

Grif frowned. “You’re being an ass today.”

“Today-“ Temple hiccupped. “ _Today_ -“

“I get it.” He looked at his gloves, trying to scrape off some blue paint that must have come from their work the day before. “I mean, if I had my way, I’d just leave you alone so you could do whatever you want. But Gene is pushy and Surge is trigger-happy, and I want to stay alive, so here we are.”

“Here we are indeed.” Temple threw his head back, laughing. “Soooooooo typical. The universe takes something from you. And then the universe throws some shit back at you. A fucked-up, crazy _copy_ who doesn’t even succeed in what he’s supposed to be.”

Grif rolled his eyes. “You know what, Temple? I’m really enjoying our talks like this. So heart-warming.”

The blue soldier reached out a hand to point at him, resulting in the half-empty can falling from his fingers. “And _you_ \- I _saved_ you. Don’t you see? They’re playing the same game over and over, moving us around like little puppets their _super_ soldiers can shoot when they’re bored. They gave us a color and with it came a role. I didn’t realize it at first. Oh, I was sooo busy with the pain, but now. Now I see it. Watching the oh-so-amazing Reds and Blues stumble their way through life made it obviously clear.”

“What about them?” Grif asked, trying not to freeze up at the mention of his friends. “The Reds and Blues?”

“Shaking the hands of the men who tied the collar around their throats… Embracing their should-be-executioners… I accepted a life surrounded by idiots, but they – _they_ mingle with Freelancers and get all the praises from the UNSC. People cheer for them. They don’t see it, but I do.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’ve been tracking down the Simulation Troopers the UNSC left to rot… You might meet them soon – they seemed very _open_ to my view of the world.”

Grif bit his tongue and said nothing.

Temple continued, “But looking at the Reds and Blues… You’ve seen the article. Even you can tell the difference. Roles. Just like us. And they are playing their roles perfectly. And you – I don’t care which group you came from, and you- you don’t care enough to tell me, but the roles must have been there. Because orange soldiers like you – well, your role is to die.”

The way his words slurred really ruined the dramatic pause. Grif decided not to take his speech seriously. “Aren’t we all meant to die? In the big picture. Don’t you ever think about that?”

“You are still alive because I’ve decided to keep you alive.”

“Bullshit.”

“You are a training dummy with a big red bullseye in the middle of your chest.”

“Okay,” Grif said, groaning when he stood up. A part of him wanted to stay in the chair, but, gods, he was tired of Temple’s voice right now. “Time to go to bed, Temple. Your shit is exhausting.”

Temple just shook his head, laughing quietly to himself. And then he froze.

Grif followed his eyes and turned around, realizing he was staring at the orange helmet that was resting carefully against the cooler.

“Pick it up.”

He looked back at Temple again. The Blue was staring at him, expression unchanging as he repeated his order, “ _Pick it up_.”

Grif had already decided not to move but then he saw Temple’s hand falling downwards to rest on the pistol strapped to his thigh. Temple’s eyes didn’t move from him. Inhaling deeply, Grif became very aware of his own lack of helmet and weapons.

With no other choice he bent down to grasp the orange helmet.

“Put it on.”

Grif did what he’s told, movement quick and aggressive. When the helmet connected with his armor perfectly, it felt like the universe was mocking him. The familiar HUD tainted his vision again, and Grif mentally cursed his military life for making it feel like a comfort. How good it felt to be back in full armor…

“There,” he said, spreading out his arms in a mockery of a bow. “Happy?”

Temple held up a shaking finger. “Shhhhhh…”

“You-“

“ _Shhhh_ ,” Temple hushed at him again, as if he was blowing out a candle. “Just – shut up.”

“Like-“

“ _QUIET, PLEASE_!” He was swaying in his seat. “Just-“ He waved his hands around in a wild gesture that Grif somehow managed to understand.

With the way Temple was just staring at him, expression softening slightly, it was hard _not_ to understand. Grif had done the same thing. Watching the Blues and Reds from afar, blocking out the sound. Just watching the colored armor and pretend…

Finally, the tension left Temple’s body and he sighed, “I fucking hate them so much…”

“Right,” Grif said, deciding that this was it. At least Temple’s fingers were no longer playing with the pistol. He left his beach chair, tore off the helmet to hold it in one hand, and proceeded to snake his free arm under Temple’s armpit, dragging him upwards. Might as well just dump him at Gene’s feet so he could be allowed to go back to his bed.

“You…” Temple said, and he might have been planning on saying more, but his mouth just puked instead.

Grif blinked at the vomit and irony hit him. He probably should have seen this coming.

* * *

The next day the only visible trace from Temple’s hungover was his pale expression and the dark circles beneath his eyes – but, honestly, those were just a natural part of his face by this point.

He didn’t say anything about the scene at the campfire. In fact, he just seemed to avoid Grif until he suddenly showed up to announce that they were leaving now.

Grif felt the familiar urge of panic as he watched them enter the ship. They could go and murder a bunch of innocent people, and Grif could not stop them. Had not stopped them…

Gene was leaning against the wall with a sour expression on his face.

Just before Temple stepped on board, he looked over his shoulder and told Grif, “It’s a shame we have to leave today. I would have _loved_ to celebrate the day.”

“…The day?” Grif asked, one eyebrow raised. He knew yesterday had been a special day, but not in a matter that should be celebrated. And what about today… How long had it been since he’d looked at a calendar?

“Today it’s been a year since you joined our little gulch!” Temple informed him cheerfully. “Time sure flies fast! Be sure to behave while I am gone!”

Grif said nothing.

When the ship had left Armada 8, Gene told him darkly, “You’re not getting any confetti from me.”

* * *

The days he spent alone with Gene were… tense. He tried to escape one evening, just for a moment, to enjoy some fresh air instead of the thick air in the underwater lair. But he couldn’t get the elevator to work, and instead of helping him, Shelly just kept scanning his face.

They’d probably locked the elevator door. Meaning he was literally stuck with a maroon maniac.

It was unfair. Either he had to listen to Gene’s skull-piercing voice, or he’d be stuck with silence. And silence just meant he’d been hearing ~~Simmo~~ \- _the_ voice inside his head again, like a ghost haunting him.

Eventually, he just settled with throwing insults at Gene. It worked well enough. Gene would always yell some back.

“What do you want now?” Gene hissed at him, trying to fix a leaking pipe. He was sitting crouched on the floor with a tool box next to him.

Grif wordlessly handed him the screwdriver he’d been holding onto. Mainly to pretend he was working if someone snuck up on him. And… well, he hadn’t been given a gun yet.

Gene looked at the tool, then at the tool box, completely filled, then at the screwdriver he was already holding. “…Thanks? …I guess?” He accepted the new screwdriver, frowning before he placed it in the box.

“No problem.”

“…So what do you want?”

Grif crouched down to sit on the other side of the pipe. A small puddle had gathered on the floor, almost reaching his boot. “What do you know about time travelling?”

“…What?”

“You’re a nerd, right? Figured we might as well talk about something else than about how we hate each other and how stupid your face is.”

Gene took some seconds to consider this. He didn’t stop working as he talked. “What do _you_ know about time travelling?”

“Uhm, the movie stuff. Upgraded cars and clocks and all that.”

“ _Shit_ , you’re stupid. Even if we look aside from the time machines themselves, we still haven’t covered the basic theory in how we can twist a four-dimensional fabric. And that’s not even considering the paradoxes. That alone should be the start of any proper discussion.”

It was working. Grif could hear it in the way Gene’s tone changed from annoyed to excited in a matter of seconds. It was… Well, Grif had handled persons like this before.

“Paradoxes?” he said, frowning. Way to make a complicated situation even more complicated.

Gene nodded, apparently forgetting the water that continued to spread. “You see, while some scientists claim time travelling can be done, science still haven’t decided how it works.”

“That sounds… confusing.”

“To you – surely,” Gene snorted. “Let’s say, hypothetically speaking of course, that you travelled back in time. Not that such a thing could actually happen – we aren’t living in a shitty scifi novel. But, okay, you go back in time and you will stumble into the Grandfather Paradox.”

“Dude, I don’t even know my grandfather.”

“That doesn’t matter!” Gene exclaimed, slamming his screwdriver against the pipe. “Do you even understand what I’m saying?”

“…I’m travelling back in time to meet my grandfather?”

“No! …Well, _yes_ , but- Okay, you go back in time and kill your grandfather.”

Grif widened his eyes. “I wouldn’t do that!  Well, knowing my family he probably was a douche, but you know I don’t just kill people! And family is family!”

“Holy crap, would you shut up?! You go back in time and kill your grandfather. What will happen?”

“I go to jail? Ooh, or I’ll flee to Mexico. Steal a car and all that shit-“

“ _No_. We don’t know what will happen!” Gene stomped the floor, resulting in water splashing around them. “Because if your grandfather is killed before he can have a child, _you_ shouldn’t exist. But you do exist if you just killed him. That’s a paradox. The scientists have two solutions. Either you’ve just created a parallel universe with that action.”

“That’s awesome.”

“No, it isn’t! Not necessarily. With that one change you could have just fucked up everything. And since you’re _you_ , you probably did. So this solution says that if you go back in time and you change something, you just create a new universe. Thousand and thousand of universes for every choice made… Do you see just how crazy it is? Just discussing this is giving me a headache. Or maybe that’s just your stench messing with my brain.”

Gene snorted before focusing on the pipe again, clasping a hand around the leak to stop the water.

“But what about the other solution?” Grif asked him. Gene had been right about something – this was headache inducing. But he had to know. “C’mon, Gene. You’re the only one here smart enough to discuss this with me.”

“You’re right about that,” Gene said smugly. “It’s really a sophisticated matter, as you can obviously tell from my explanation. Good luck trying to figure out all this on your own. If you knew how long it took me to… Wait, _why_ do you want to discuss this?”

“Just… thought about some scifi movies I used to watch with my sister. Left me curious, you know. You can never have enough knowledge, and all that…” Grif cleared his throat. “So, the second solution?”

“Well, either you _can_ change the past – and by doing so you create a new universe. That’s called the multiverse theory. It’s either that, or-“

Grif forced himself to swallow his announce when Gene made a dramatic pause. “ _Or_?”

Gene shrugged. “Or you _can’t_ change the past. It’s actually quite simple. One universe, all set, and you can’t change it. You can _try_ , but the universe is stronger than you.” He then continued to fix the pipe, metal creaking loudly as he twisted the screwdriver.

“But,” Grif said, licking his lips. His mouth suddenly felt very dry. “But my grandfather is a huge jackass and I have a gun to his forehead and I pull the trigger-“

“You still can’t change it. Your grandfather will live, no matter what you do.”

“I can pull the trigger-“

“He won’t die! Geez, are you even listening to me?” Gene sneered. “The universe would keep itself going, no matter what.”

Grif forced himself to swallow what little salvia was left in his mouth. “So what would happen?”

“Easy,” Gene told him. “If you pull the trigger, you can’t kill him. The universe will make sure you won’t succeed. If we only have one universe, your grandfather has to live or-“

“ _Or_?!”

“You die.”

The leak had been reduced to a few drops of water steadily falling from the wipe. The sound of them dropping seemed to echo in the small room.

Grif inhaled shakily.

Gene put down the screwdriver. “Now, are you done bothering me? Because we have work to do.”

Grif shook his head, pulling himself free from the thoughts that had begun to take over his tired mind. “Done, yeah. But I’m not really into the whole work thing.”

“You’re not napping today, Grif. We’re not even halfway with the list of things Temple wants us to fix-“

“Then it’s a good thing you’re so energic and eager to show off your skills. I mean, you _really_ want to polish Temple’s spare helmets, don’t you? Doesn’t really matter if you don’t. Because you have to do it if you want to prove yourself so that you don’t get stuck with baby-sitting duty the next time.” There was some strangely satisfying about watching Gene’s expression grow dark. “What’s the matter, Gene? Did I hit a nerve? I’m sure you’ll feel better once you’ve cleaned the floor. I’m gonna go take a nap now.”

“No.” Gene stepped in front of him, arms crossed. “You’re going to polish Temple’s helmets, like you’ve been told to.”

Grif rolled his eyes. “Or what? You’ll make me?” Yeah, that’d be a sight. Like Gene could tackle him…

“Or,” Gene said, and there was this smug tone in his voice that made Grif freeze, “I’ll tell Temple that you went totally insane again.”

Grif widened his eyes.

Gene smiled at the sight. “Yeah, I’ll tell him all about how you said we are all crazy murderers and maniacs and how you talked to yourself and sat on the same stupid spot for days-“

“You-“ Grif said before cutting himself off. He clenched his fists. It’d taken him, well, a year, apparently, to get this far. It wasn’t much, but it was better than being strapped to a bed, being called sick and fed pills and feeling his own sanity slip through his fingers…

Gene shoved a rag into his hands. “Be thorough. Temple doesn’t like bloodstains.”

* * *

Grif was the first one to go to bed that night. That left him alone in the sleeping quarters with just a dim light allowing him to find his way to the bed. He sat down, burying his hands in his hair.

The shelves had been filled with blue helmets weeks before. Now… Now there were a few missing spots. Not a lot, but still enough evidence to leave Grif with the feeling that Temple had begun to leave a helmet behind after a successful mission now… And there were still so, so many helmets left on the shelves.

He looked up, watching the orange helmet resting on his bed desk. He hadn’t touched it since the night he’d had to wipe Temple’s vomit of his chest plate.

It wasn’t like he wanted to touch it. Just the fact it belonged to a dead guy made him want to throw it away. But the room was _so_ quiet, and he couldn’t face Gene again tonight, and just maybe Biff had downloaded some songs to listen to while on patrol. Or maybe the calendar worked inside the HUD. Just anything that could be used to ground himself with…

Grif put on the helmet.

The light in the ceiling blinked.

“Scanning.”

He looked up.

“…Biff.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're starting to address how Grif's time travelling works... Though I haven't revealed an answer yet... We'll see when that happens...
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	17. Beekeeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loco presses a button.

“So there you are!” Temple carried himself like he could brighten up a room – something he clearly failed at. “Gene did you say you were down here, sulking.”

Grif looked up at him and snorted. Maybe this qualified as sulking but he wasn’t sure. If sitting alone in a darkened room while listening to a radio turned up to full volume meant sulking – then sure: he was sulking. Whenever one of the big whales swam by, the radio would play static for a few seconds instead.

“I brought you a gift,” Temple said, crouching before throwing the package towards him.

“Am I finally getting my cheeseburger?”

“Not quite.”

The package landed in his lap. Grif picked it up and turned it over. “Cigarettes?” he asked, unable to hide his surprise.

“I thought you might find them enjoyable.”

“How?” Grif picked one out and held it between his fingers. “I haven’t been able to get my hands on one for years.”

For a moment, the flash of insecurity could be seen on Temple’s face. “I just had a hunch.”

Grif nodded, looking at the cigarette before placing it back in the package. Those were treats, indeed, and so they should be spent on a moment more worth of celebration than just Temple returning from a mission.

“So,” Temple said, sitting down in front of him. “Gene tells me you’ve been a bit... _grumpy_ while we were gone.”

“Yeah, Gene has that effect.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve missed us.”

“Well, Temple, let me tell you that you were never the brightest.”

Temple chuckled and took of his helmet. His grin was brighter and bigger than ever.

“How about a game?”

* * *

“Don’t you get bored of playing the same piece of bullshit over and over?”

“Actually,” Temple said while moving his queen. “I find it relaxing. It’s nice with some stability in your daily life.”

“You mean, your big ego is built on winning a game of chess every day?”

“That too.” He smiled, still looking like a cat that’d just pulled a fish from the water. “But who knows – you might win today.”

Grif rolled his eyes. “As if.” He looked at the board, rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “Let’s just get it over with. I give up.”

“Ah, c’mon. Be a good sport.”

“Why?” Grif reached a hand forward, knocking over his own king. “There you go. I give up. Got your ego boost already?”

Temple shook his head, almost sadly, though a small smile could still be seen on his lips. “That’s a shame. You were one move away from putting me in a checkmate.”

“Sure.”

“I’m serious. See, if you moved that bishop, you’d be able to call chess, and then I’d be forced to move here, and then you could have declared checkmate with your next move. You need to be more insistent, Grif. That’s what I always say – victory is straight ahead if you dare grab it.”

Grif stared at the board, at the white and black pieces, and he sighed loudly before placing his feet on top of it. “Whatever,” he said, ignoring Temple’s displeased frown.

“Did your little weekend with Gene really ruin your mood that badly?”

“He says I’m crazy.”

“And I agree with him. Sometimes. Depends on your behavior. You’ve become better at not talking to the walls, though.”

“About that,” Grif said while staring at the ceiling that had remained quiet so far. But it was time to change that. “I’ve learned a neat trick while you were gone.”

Temple raised an eyebrow, with the curiosity showing in his grey eyes. “Really? Show me.”

Trying to ignore how Temple’s last sentence had been an order, Grif picked up his new helmet from the floor. “Hey, Shelly,” he said before placing it on his head.

“Scanning… Hello, Biff.”

The way Temple bit his lip was something Grif would always remember. The sudden flash of raw insecurity was revealed in Temple’s expression before he managed to twist his lips upwards in a smile again. “I see. Neat, indeed.”

“Yep. And not only that. You know that porn you thought Biff had saved in Shelly? Well, turns out it wasn’t porn. Which actually ruined my night, really, do you know just how long it’s been? They didn’t even have magazines on Chorus.”

“What did he save?” Temple demanded to know, leaning over the table. The calm expression was gone now, and instead the eyes were wild and widened.

Grif, on the other hand, was smiling calmly. “Just some old recordings and stuff. Oh and some logs. Where he talked about stuff. About you. And a girl. What was her name again?”

“Georgina,” Temple said, wincing as if the word hurt him.

Grif snapped his fingers. “Right. And she was pregnant, too! Did you know that? Because Biff obviously knew that which was why he was _planning on leaving Desert Gulch in the first place_. Except, he didn’t know _how_ to break the news to you, because you are, and I quote him, _creepingly obsessed_.”

“What’s your point?”

“You always talked about Biff as if- as if you two were meant to stay together forever and Project Freelancer ruined that. But he wasn’t even going to stay in the first place!”

“They still killed him!” Temple pointed out, yelling, and smashing his clenched fist against the board so that the pieces rolled off the edge. “They killed him in cold blood with no regrets because we were supposed to be their little shooting dummies. So _which fucking role_ does Georgina have to play in that?”

“I thought you and Biff were fucking! And that’s why you’re so fucking obsessed with this.”

“I am not _obsessed_!”

Grif rolled his eyes and stood up from his chair. “Biff thought so and that was before you started to murder people!”

“You don’t know Biff!”

“I read his logs! And he didn’t even know how to tell you that he was going home because he was sure you’d throw a scene!”

“Shut up!” Temple wild eyes settled on him, and he kept flexing his hands. The room grew darker as a whale swam by window. The radio playing quietly in the corner began to play static instead. “Your ‘ _friends_ ’ left you as well!” he spat back at Grif.

Grif had not thought about his friends for a long time. This remember was just bitter, if anything. “My friends are dead,” he lied, not to defend the others – he’d honestly stopped caring at this point, and it wasn’t like they’d ever find out about this – but to shoot down this similarity between him and Temple.

“Same thing,” Temple said, flailing a hand around. “They’re gone either way.”

“Just-“ Grif inhaled, almost sighing in relief when the radio began playing music again. It felt soothing instead of headache-invoking. “Just read the damn files. Shelly, feel free to share them. Screw the whole ‘marked private’ thing.”

“Categorization change complete.”

“Biff wouldn’t agree with _this_ ,” Grif told him before leaving the room.

* * *

“Are you smoking?”

It was almost laughable. Were all sim troopers blind? How many times had Grif not been asked that question while obviously holding a cigarette in his hand? Just like now.

“That’s what it looks like,” he said, inhaling again. He was resting his back against his rock again, leaning against the scratched out letters. He wasn’t waiting for any magical rescue. He’d just grown used to the spot, after all this time.

Cronut placed himself in front of him, hands on his hips. “Grif, that isn’t good for you!”

Grif let the smoke fly towards the cloud-free sky above them. “Look at what I’m holding in my hand. A cigarette.”

“A ticket to lung cancer city,” Cronut tsk-ed.

Grif shrugged before nodding in his direction. “Now look at what you’re holding.”

Cronut’s helmed tilted downwards to look at the weapon in his hands. “…A gun?” he asked with his frown evident in his voice. For a moment Grif even thought he’d throw the pistol to the sandy ground.

“Do you really want to compare smoke to a bullet, Cronut?” he asked him dryly. He wasn’t sure what was so calming – the familiar yet luxury scent of the cigarette, or the feeling of pride that manipulating his surroundings always gave him. “Which one of us to you think kill the most people? Which one of us should drop what we’re holding?”

“I… Uh…”

“Exactly,” Grif said, nodding. “So I think I have the right to smoke in peace.” It’d felt good. Alone in the desert, feeling the sun against his face, the sand beneath his palm, and the smoke soothing his mind. If he tried hard enough, he could almost believe he was back on Hawaii.

Cronut seemed to have recovered from the mind game, coughing awkwardly and choosing not to mention the cigarette between Grif’s lips again. “I just wanted to ask you if you want to see Loco’s new invention?”

“Invention?” Grif said, almost choking on the smoke in surprise.

* * *

“It’s theory, mostly,” Temple said as they all gathered around Loco. He was sitting on the metal floor, cross-legged.  “We found all the intel in the last abandoned Project Freelancer base. It’s a work in progress for now but Loco is already doing wonders.”

Said blue soldier nodded happily, twisting a screwdriver into what looked like a handheld mess of wires and memory chips.

“What does it do?” Grif asked. But he had a feeling that he already knew.

This was the first time Temple had spoken to him since their little fight the evening before. But he seemed completely unfaced.  Maybe he hadn’t even bothered to read the logs. He now he was just smiling in satisfaction as he looked at Loco work.

Loco looked up at him, a bright grin on his face. For a moment it occurred to Grif that he was the only one wearing a helmet. And it wasn’t even his own helmet. Not technically. It was Biff’s.

“Ooh, I can show that,” Loco said, holding up the unfinished device.

While it was still mainly wires and an unprotected blinking core, Grif recognized the big button-shaped space that Loco’s finger pressed down on.

But Temple was the first one to react. “Loco. No!”

And Grif froze.

He’d experienced the armor mechanic before, but he’d almost forgotten how it felt. The armor trapping him, like melted metal stiffening over his body. It pressed against his chest, preventing him from taking the deep breaths Simmons had always advised himself to focus on when he panicked.

Somewhere deep inside his brain, a voice reminded him that this was the perfect way to nap while standing, but he couldn’t even laugh at himself. The instinctual horror overtook him when his body wanted to jerk forward, to shake and move, but the armor kept him in place.

He wondered how the Freelancers had survived days like this.

His heart began to race, heartbeat growing faster and louder as the panic grew. His breathing quickened as well, but the armor lock constricted it.

The world around him had grown muffled, but he wasn’t sure if that was caused by his helmet or the horror inside his head.

 “-undo it!”

That was Temple’s voice. He recognized it, recognized the panic and the anger in it.

“Uhm, yeah, no, this isn’t working.”

He was staring straight at Loco, unable to move his head, and so he watched the Blue press the button over and over and nothing happened.

Then Loco was pushed aside, and Temple entered his vision. His face seemed to be almost pressed against his visor, and Grif could see the worry in his widened eyes, the surprise and curiosity in his frown. “Grif, can you hear me?”

Grif could hear him. Speaking was the hardest part. “Fuuuu- Fuck. _Fuck_. Let me out.” It was hard to get his throat to vibrate, to get the words past his lips. He hoped they could hear him.

“Working on it. We just need to… cut some wires. Just stay still.”

He could barely feel them touch his helmet, pull at it. But he could hear them tap the metal plates covering the back of his head.

“You’re- seriously- telling me that?”

Temple didn’t even bother to answer him. He just moved away, out of his limited vision, to go behind him. “Loco, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Yes. I’m cutting the blue wire-“

Grif didn’t hear if he explained the plan further. He didn’t hear anything. He _couldn’t_ hear anything. It was as if someone had pressed the mute button.

“Loco? Don’t- don’t touch that- wire,” Grif said, despite knowing the wire had already been cut and that it had most certainly not fixed his situation.

It’d only worsened, if anything.

He barely dared to close his eyes, knowing it’d only trap him in the silence and the nothingness.

“I can’t,” he said but he wasn’t even sure if he could be heard.

Temple appeared in front of him again, and Grif watched his mouth move but he could hear nothing.

“You- fucking cut off the sound- I-“

When he blinked, he was suddenly reminded of the days inside the empty base, waiting, when there’d been nothing and no one to break the silence.

Temple moved again, and then there was nothing to stare at, just the grey metal wall.

Grif wanted to puke but he didn’t even believe that the armor lock would allow that throat movement.

“Don’t go,” he said, and he wished the armor lock would just mute him as well, because later he’d want to cut off his own tongue for sounding that desperate. “Stay.”

Temple’s face returned, and Grif stared at it, watching his small smile and worried eyes and the way his lips moved, until the helmet finally came off and he could actually hear the words of comfort that Temple was telling him.

* * *

“Do you want to watch _Star Wars_?” Temple asked him during dinner.

Grif nodded quietly, flinching when his knife scraped against the plate.

When they were done with eating, he rose to bring his plate to the sink (he’d left them on the table before, dirty, for days, so that Gene would throw familiar hissy fits at him. But today he wasn’t interested in that screaming contest.) but Temple reached out to touch his upper arm. “Let Gene handle that.”

Gene’s head snapped towards them, looking like an offended bird, but he said nothing.

Temple had saved a room for relaxing nights like this, outfitted with a couch and a tv, and in a manner that should probably remind him of a normal living room. But it was a bit hard, with the constant leaking from the pipes and the glass windows.

It felt almost surreal, sitting in Temple’s couch, like this place wasn’t also outfitted with a murder room.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” Temple said after the yellow letters had flown across the screen.

Grif stayed quiet, glancing at the movie. His fingers had been shaking just slightly since the armor accident earlier that day.

“Biff wasn’t as… loyal, as I’d have hoped for. I can’t say it didn’t hurt, having your best friend turn on you like that. I never thought-“ He chuckled almost sadly. “-never thought he’d _abandon_ me like that.”

“You were right,” Grif muttered. “They still killed him. The logs don’t change that. It… It sucks. Losing your best friend.”

“We’re doing the right thing.”

Grif tried to ignore the ‘ _we’_ in that sentence, so instead he asked, “Have you ever visited his kid?”

“No,” Temple snorted, like Grif had just asked him to wash himself in boiling water. “Why should I do that?”

“Because… he’s your best friend’s kid?”

“I don’t know him.”

“Because you haven’t visited him,” Grif pointed out dryly.

“Oh well. What’s the classic hero excuse? I can’t involve civilians in my dangerous work – the UNSC might come after them, etcetera etcetera.”

“I think you should see them,” Grif told him with his eyes glued to the screen. “Fuck your stupid plan.”

“Too late to back down now,” Temple said with a shrug.

They fell quiet again. Grif tried to relax, to lean against the pillow and let his muscles rest, but it felt like the armor lock hadn’t disappeared, despite the fact that he was dressed in civvies. The tenseness caused him to set rigid in the couch, and he felt Temple’s puzzled glance on him multiple times.

Grif wondered if he’d ever feel safe inside his armor again. He’d never _enjoyed_ being covered by the metal, and it’d always felt cramped but people had told him that was his own fault for eating too much. And when the air conditioning system had broken, it certainly hadn’t made it more comfortable.

But even after the helmet had come off today, even after Temple had assured him that he was okay, and after Grif had called them all crazy, the sensation of slowly being drowned hadn’t left him.

Grif didn’t speak again until they’d reached the climax of the movie.

“Project Freelancer screwed me over, too,” he said quietly, not bothering to look up at Temple. “So you can shove the whole martyr-act up your ass.”

The words were bitter and aggressive, but Temple had grown used to that by now. He smiled. “I knew we understood each other,” he said, leaning back against the pillow. “Don’t you ever wonder how your life would be like without the interference of Project Freelancer?”

“A lot less crazy.”

Temple wanted to laugh but the noise seemed to get stuck in his throat. “Very true.”

Grif hummed briefly as a response. Temple waited for him to say more, but Grif just fished another cigarette from his picket. At least he seemed to enjoy that gift. He lit it without asking for permission, but his eyes jumped towards Temple, watching for any reaction.

When Temple showed no signs of irritation, he inhaled deeply. The smoke did bother Temple, but he’d grown used to that during high school, when Biff had picked up the bad habit. Now… now it just smelled somewhat comforting.

 “It’s… You were right. About friends always leaving,” Grif said, twirling the cigarette between his fingers. “It’s- something you have to get used to.”

Temple felt an invisible weight leave his chest. “It’s certainly bitter. Isn’t it?”

“Assholes will be assholes,” Grif said with a shrug, blowing a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling.

“But that isn’t the problem. The problem is when they leave.”  Temple inhaled the sour smell, willing to let it corrupt his lungs. He dug his fingers into the fabric of the couch. “But we aren’t going anywhere.”

“Well, I _can’t_ leave, so yeah.”

“I’ll take it.” He tilted his head, trying to get a proper look at Grif’s expression. But he kept his face free from emotions, as if they’d harmed him. The neutral expression was admirable, but also annoying, in the end. “Nice to know you don’t have a girlfriend waiting at home.”

“Lonely me.”

“You’re not leaving,” Temple said, and he could feel the smile on his lips when he finally dared to speak the words out loud. “I know you don’t appreciate me pointing it out, but you’re one of us now. We stay together – despite our… differences. And we survive. ‘cause we look out for each other in this cruel, cruel world when everyone else thinks we’re worth nothing.”

Grif still wasn’t looking at him. It was rather rude, seeing how Temple had made sure to use his dramatic voice for the speech, even making some hand gestures to set the mood. But Grif was just staring at the screen, without truly watching the movie.

Temple leaned a bit closer to gain his attention. “I hope the… _scene_ today showed you that.”

“It certainly showed me something.”

Temple tilted his head. He heard the movie in the background, all the shooting and the yelling, but he didn’t bother to look. He already knew the ending. “I… _appreciate_ you being here, Grif. It’s comforting. The familiarity.”

“Good to know I can fill out someone else’s shoes.”

“See, I can forgive your bitterness. I know how it hurts to have everyone leaving you.”

For a moment it looked like Grif wanted to say something. His mouth was opened but then he inhaled sharply, seemingly regretting his words before he’d even spoken them. He then said, “I… I don’t go around killing people.”

“I know,” Temple said, nodding eagerly. He could feel his heartbeat grow faster in excitement. “And I can forgive that as well. I’ve grown as a person, you see. All these… sacrifices. They’ve taught me patience. I’m not asking you to join us when we leave. All I want is for you to be here when we return.”

“You’re going after Freelancers now?” Grif asked him, almost causally, as if he’d accepted that this was their daily life now.

Which it was.

“Don’t worry. We know how to stay safe.” He knew the risks they were taking, how they were facing danger in order to save the innocents. But he was smarter than the enemy, he had his plans to lead them to victory. And they were working. “They think they know it all, with their fancy muscles and gadgets. Oh, but I know better. How the mighty will fall.”

“They don’t care about us,” Grif had said, and it might as well have been a love confession.

Temple felt his heart skip a beat. “Exactly!” he exclaimed, resisting the urge to take Grif’s hands and congratulate him for seeing the light. _Finally_. Of course he’d have Temple to thank for finding the right path. “That is why we stick together! Gather enough pawns, and the kings will fall!”

“Can I come with you?” Grif asked him.

And Temple thought his own ears were betraying him. “Huh?”

Grif finally turned his head to look at him with his tired eyes. “On your next mission? I’m not a good shot but- it beats staying here.”

“You want to come along?” Temple asked, just to be sure. And when Grif nodded, he was almost sure this was another hallucination, Biff haunting him all over again. But when he reached out to touch Grif’s shoulder, laughing, the soldier in the orange shirt was real and solid beneath his hand. Temple smiled.  “Of course! I’ve been waiting for you to ask…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. So many WIPs, and the fandom events keep me busy. I’m also participating in the fluff week but I really wanted to finish this chapter, so I’ll try to get the fluff stuff out before the end of the week.
> 
> The title of this chapter comes from the song “Beekeeper” by Keaton Henson which has been a huge inspiration for this fic. 
> 
> Thank you for the support. Things will start to get… crazy, in the next chapter.


	18. Lunatic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif asks questions.

Temple sat with a helmet in his hands, turning it around to admire himself in the visor.

“Where’s Doc?” Grif asked him, and Temple caught the hint of genuine curiosity in his voice. It didn’t match with his bored expression, but that was pretty standard by now. But his eyes had changed, in a pleasant way.

Less lifeless, more… shiny. With excitement, perhaps. Like a fever burning. Just a little bit glassy, like madness taking over and driving them forward. Temple had seen such eyes when he looked in the mirror. Determined yet resigned.

Maybe… Maybe Grif had found Buckey’s stash again. The alcohol could make anyone’s behavior seem a bit off. Not that Temple didn’t appreciate the change.

Grif was chattier now, asked more questions. Sometimes Temple didn’t have an answer for him.

“I don’t know.”

“Aren’t you supposed to know?”

Temple shrugged. “He always comes back. At some point.”

Grif was flipping through the various movies they could choose from, trying to decide what they should spend their evening on. “Is he with the Reds and Blues?” he finally asked.

“You’re still curious about them?”

“Cronut mentioned an article.”

It was hard not to give him what he wanted. Temple wondered if he’d grown soft, like Gene kept suggesting, and reached for the datapad on his bed table. The article was the first thing that showed up when he turned on the machine. “Here,” he said. “It’s a bit old. Cronut was probably mentioning the recent news.”

“Recent?” Grif asked while accepting the flat screen. He looked at the article, zooming in to the picture. Temple understood the curiosity.

While he couldn’t claim to know the feeling, he realized how strange it must feel, to look at your doppelganger and see how they tainted your color. Of course he’d been spared the pain with their cobalt soldier having died years ago.

He’d thought about that fact, naturally. How they’d lost their cobalt soldier, and they’d lost Biff. That Biff was buried in the ground _somewhere_ , hopefully, while their orange soldier could march around, alive and free.

“Shaking hands with the devil,” Temple noted dryly as Grif read the article. He seemed to skim it and he quickly turned off the screen again. But not before Temple had let his hands curl into fists at the sight of Agent Carolina.

Grif threw the datapad back at him. His brows were furrowed above the darkened scowl. “I fucking hate journalists,” he said before throwing himself back against the bed with a sigh.

“The media never seems to be on our side,” Temple mused, making himself comfortable as well. It’d become so easy to sleep down here. Maybe it was the darkened light, the blue color. Above ground he’d always slept so restlessly since the accident. “It’s only right to use that to our advantage.”

“You know how to play the game.”

“Speaking of which,” Temple said. He’d almost forgotten it before Grif’s words stirred his memory. “It’s time for chess, don’t you think?”

Grif groaned against the mattress. “Not again.”

“But you have been so close at winning-“

“Can’t we play something else?” he asked him, turning over so he could stare at the ceiling. “Another stupid game?”

“Like what?”

He could feel Grif’s eyes drift towards him, and he turned his head to return the glance. Grif’s eyebrows were raised, as if he’d expected Temple to just turn down the idea. But while he did enjoy chess, some change wouldn’t hurt.

“I don’t know,” the other soldier finally said. He shrugged but didn’t abandon the subject. “Maybe like those shitty questions rounds?”

Now it was Temple’s turn to frown. “Shitty questions?” he asked and adjusted his position on his bed so he could get a better look at Grif.

“You know. Best worst superpower. Or if you could just eat one thing for the rest of your life?”

“Chicken nuggets,” Temple replied quickly.

The shock on the other’s face was worth it. It only lasted for a moment before Grif began to squint in suspicion again. “Are you being serious?” he asked him. “I can’t tell.”

At least it was almost comforting that he couldn’t read him that well yet. Temple tilted his head and sent him a polite smile. “Well, you’ll just have to trust me then.”

Grif kept glaring at him with the narrowed eyes, as if he expected Temple to pull a trick on him. So he stared back, watching how Grif’s frown pulled at his skin grafts. He wondered who had given him those injuries, and if Grif would ever tell him about it. Maybe, in time. Things were certainly going in the right direction.

“Pizza,” Grif finally said. “Meat lover’s pizza with extra cheese.”

Temple made a mental note of that, nodding before saying, “My turn then.” He took some seconds to consider his question, making it somewhat _‘shitty’_ as Grif had described them. “If you could have chosen your own armor color, what would it be?”

Pulling his head back, Grif stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. “What the fuck, dude? We’re not going that deep. What is this – a freaking counselling session?”

“Just admit you wanted to be a Blue.”

“You’re so wrong, it’s sad on a sickening level,” Grif spat at him, though he could sense the familiar teasing tone. “You’re more wrong than Surge saying the sky is only blue in disguise.” He wrinkled his nose, as if the question had offended him that badly. “Do I look like a dramatic asshole to you?”

“Quite a bit, actually.”

“Whatever,” Grif said, rolling his eyes. A few seconds later, he had the next questions ready. “Only go backwards the rest of your life – or you can go forward but you can only use your hands as feet?”

It was almost annoying how hard he actually had to think about the question. But it seemed like he’d always been forced to deal with obstacles in the way of his goal, so the question shouldn’t be that hard. “Backwards,” he finally decided. “I was never a good gymnast.”

“Same", Grif said, turning on the screen so they could play the movie. “That way we can eat while walking.”

Temple had to let out a brief laughter at that. He hadn’t even thought about that advantage. He hummed thoughtfully as he tried to come up with his question for the next round. “If you could go back in time-“

He hadn’t even finished his sentence before Grif doubled over, a loud and raw laughter escaping his mouth.

Temple watched him and wondered if this place truly made people insane.

But he wasn’t complaining.

* * *

“Did I ever tell you that patience is a virtue?” Temple asked him dryly while they walked. Grif remained right at his heels, not dropping the subject.

“Did I ever tell you that you’re full of crap?” he said, copying his dry tone. “Just tell me when we’re going.”

“I don’t know,” he told him, sternly. It was hard not to let the annoyance get the better of him, now when the same stupid question had been asked again and again. Grif wasn’t _that_ stupid. And he certainly didn’t use to be that eager. “As I’ve already told you, _many times before_ , we can first head out when Loco has finished working on the remote.”

The metal door took a second to open, allowing Grif to catch up and stand right next to him. “But you know where we’re going?” he asked, slightly breathless.

At least he was asking a new question now. Temple could tolerate that. Besides, it wasn’t like he could blame Grif for being excited. “We seem to have located Agent Alaska, yes.” It hadn’t been easy in the beginning – but then Gene had stumbled upon data about the recovery beacons. It’d all been too easy to plan after that. “Why are you so eager?”

“Just restless,” Grif shrugged, turning his head to stare out of the window, watching a purple ray swim by. “I’ve been stuck here for a long time. With you guys.”

“That must be traumatic,” Temple snorted but then went straight to the point. He hadn’t thought about it before, but Grif’s answer had suddenly made him aware of a possible flaw. “How long has it been since you’ve fired a gun?”

“I shot the shit out of that rock some months ago.”

“I mean, a living target.”

It took Grif too long to reply, and when he did he wasn’t even answering the question. “Why?” he asked instead.

“Our missions don’t always end without some blood being spilled. I’d hate to see you get hurt.” Most often it was the UNSC that paid the price – which was only fair and expected, since his team was more than capable of battling them.

But Grif didn’t seem alarmed. He just shrugged once again and said, “Meh. I’ve been doing just fine as a meat-shield.”

Grif took a step forward, ready to head down the hallways without thinking further about his own statement.

But Temple reached out, grabbing him by the shoulder to spin him around. He made sure to tighten his grip in case he tried to pull himself loose. “Do you think that is funny?” he hissed because if Grif was stupid enough to say shit like that, he needed to shake some sense into him.

But Grif looked unfaced by the sudden contact, just slowly lowering his glance to stare at Temple’s hand on his shoulder. “Gallows humor,” he said, trying to shrug himself loose.

Temple tried to catch his stare but he kept avoiding his eyes. That was a sign of shame, wasn’t it? Maybe he had regretted his words.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he finally said, pushing him away. “Go train with Surge later. We’ve not come so far for you to fuck it up.”

“Yeah. That’d be a real shame,” Grif muttered, just loud enough for him to hear. “You could bury me next to Biff, matching graves and all-“

“He’s not buried here.”

The words slipped out of his lips before he thought about it.

Grif looked up at him. “What?”

“He’s not here. They took his body and buried him _somewhere_. Maybe Earth. Hell if I know.” He’d thought – hoped – that maybe they’d been invited to a funeral. That he could leave the canyon for just a day. But they never heard anything. “I suppose it should make it easier. Just pretend that he went home. With _Georgina._ ” His tone had grown just a notch too bitter, so he cleared his throat. “But it doesn’t. So,” he shrugged, gesturing for Grif to follow him to the living quarters. “Nothing to do but move on. One step at a time. Until the king has been knocked down and the pawn can take the throne.”

“So how do you plan to take down a Freelancer?”

“Simple. We clear the terrain, corner them and see how they will approach the situation. And then,” he pushed the door open, ready to face the rest of the team as they’d go through the plans of the day. “It’s as simple as a push of a button.”

* * *

“What a view.” Temple looked out of the windows of the ship, now when it was _finally_ time. The day had _finally_ come. The first out of many, of course. There were fifty states, after all, though some had already been taken care of. “Feels good to leave that dreadful desert, huh?”

Grif was standing next to him, looking out through the window as well as they broke through the atmosphere. The new planet began to take shape beneath them; a mix of purple and dark brown colors mixing together.

It was a good place to start. It hadn’t been a long trip and the planet was little and isolated. And, if their intel was correct, the agent should be alone. But of course they would make sure to scout the place first. There was no need to rush into this.

“Yeah,” Grif said, a hand against the glass. “It’s been a while.”

They were all wearing full body armor, ready for the task ahead of them, and as Temple stood beside Grif, it suddenly felt like facing a ghost.

“Did you think you were going to die in that canyon?” Temple asked him, trying to keep up a cheerful voice.

“Pretty sure that’s what we were supposed to do.”

“Well,” Temple said, pulling his lips back into a smile. “It’s a good thing we don’t follow orders, then.”

Grif nodded, and as they began to land, he backed away from the window.

He stood behind Temple as he clasped his hands together and prepared his speech. The rest of their group had turned to face him. “My friends,” he began. It was important to keep the mood high. “Today is the day where we take our first real step towards justice. One small step for us, even smaller taken considering the years of planning _but_ – a big step for us, and an even bigger step for the Sim Troopers! So, do we need to go through the plan again?” he asked as the hatch began to open. “Cronut and Buckey, you will head in first to scout the terrain.”

Buckey tightened his grip on his sniper rifle as a response. He was too happy about that thing.

“Loco and Lopenzo will be the reinforcement. Surge, please do remember that the best flank attacks means not pulling the trigger until the last second. Gene, stay close to remind him of the fact. And Grif,” he turned around to face him, “you’ll stay close to… me…”

Grif was gone.

Temple blinked.

Loco held up at hand. “Uhm, yeah, Grif with two F’s said he needed to use the bathroom. So he left. To find a bush.”

Temple looked around at the barren terrain.

Gene huffed, “I told you he needed to be kept on a leash.”

* * *

Grif ran.

It really showed how serious he was about this whole thing. His lungs were burning worse than his legs, but he knew he had to reach the Freelancer first.

Temple just needed to get close enough to push that stupid button and it’d all be over. But if Grif found them first-

He could change things.

Of course, the plan was incredible stupid and dangerous. But that had been the standard since being forced into the army.

He wished he could have stayed back in bed – even if the bed was located in the fucking lair – but he knew this was his chance. Sure, he could have stayed behind to slowly lose the remains of his sanity until he’d finally break the entire universe by coming face to face with his future self.

But if he could get to the Freelancer, somehow convince them to get the fuck out of here – then there’d be no dead Freelancers. And if they could warn Carolina and Wash then Temple’s plans could be foiled before-

Or the Freelancer could just be given the upper hand and kill Temple and the others. Yeah, that’d probably work too. Then the Freelancer could give him a ride back to Chorus or the moon or wherever the others were and he would... What? Wait the rest of this shit out? Then he could face the others and say “missed me, assholes?”

And then hear them say no.

Or could he even face them again? If he stopped Temple’s plans from happening, that meant no time machine, and that meant he wouldn’t disappear into the portal…

Would fixing things mean a life in isolation? Because that didn’t sound good. Except the part where he fixed everything because… because that was what he was supposed to do. Right?

It all just gave him a headache. So he decided to stop thinking. Chances were he was so stupid that he’d just be wrong about anything.

So it was better to just _try_.

He couldn’t-

Even if he got the chance to reunite with the others again, and punch them in their fucking faces for being _that_ slow, then he couldn’t just tell them that he’d done _nothing_. That he’d hung out with Temple and had freaking movie nights.

Sure, he’d been forced to adapt in order to survive the whole fucking year.

But to tell them that he hadn’t even _tried_ to save people… Yeah, he could already imagine their judgmental glances.

So he was gonna _try_. And maybe save some lives. That was what a Captain was supposed to do. Even a shitty one.

Where would a Freelancer hide on a tiny island? Temple had said that this one had been described as paranoid-

So maybe the bunker right ahead of him was a good place to start. The metal was a contrast to the rest of the enviroment.

After a second of consideration, he decided to knock, feeling like the idiot he was. “Uhm, hello? Agent Alaska?”

Alaska. _A_. Gene had said they might as well go through the list alphabetically. A nice system to follow.

No one answered.

But the door wasn’t locked.

He swung it open, stepping inside. The rifle was heavy in his hands. It reminded him of the times on Chorus, when it had been the daily routine to step outside and shoot bad guys. Watch the good guys fall right next to you. Your soldiers. Fucking kids…

Grif placed his rifle on his back. “I’m unarmed! So don’t fucking shoot! We need to get out of here! It’s-“

He was surrounded by metal walls, his voice echoing against them. A door had been left slightly open and he peeked inside. There was no one in there. Just metal shelves filled with conserved food. Some empty cans were on the floor.

Grif gulped and wondered how it must feel to live the rest of your life in isolation.

The Freelancer had to be inside. If he wasn’t, then Temple could already have found them and-

“I know it’s- it’s _fucking stupid_ to trust a- a _nobody_ who’s just blabbering about Project Freelancer but-“

A white armored soldier filled the doorway. It was impossible to ignore the way their body froze at the mention of the program.

“You’re right,” the Freelancer growled, and Grif’s eyes settled on the rifle in their hands. “It’s _very_ stupid.”

The shots went off, _bang bang bang_ , and more _bangs_ until the only thing Grif could hear was the ringing in his ears. The Freelancer’s armor blend into the white color that spread until it covered his entire vision, swallowing everything until nothing was left but white, white, white.

It was like a punch to his abdomen, like back in the present, when he’d stumbled over the cord, falling into the portal, away from Simmons. But it was hotter, wetter, with an unpleasant amount of pain.

Almost like being run over by the tank, like the Meta grabbing his leg to make his chest collide with the unforgiving ice and drag him towards death, like Simmons’ silence on the moon-

Grif fell, back hitting the floor. It wasn’t cold like the ice on Sidewinder, though the warmth in his abdomen seemed to be fading.

When he blinked, the colors had returned, and he was staring at the metal ceiling. It was so grey. He thought of Kai and wondered if her skies looked like this.

The HUD was blinking like the fireworks back on Earth, letters and numbers he didn’t bother to read, so he closed his eyes and focused on the voices instead.

He could hear them yelling in the distance, more shots being fired, and he could hear Temple but he could also hear-

_“Well, either you can change the past-“_

The ringing became louder, enough to mute Temple when he appeared within his fuzzy vision. His helmet was off, and his eyes were widened, and his face was so pale, like Simmons but without the freckles…

He was crying, Grif realized, but he couldn’t hear what he was saying. He could only hear Simmons, no _Gene_ , back when they'd talked about travelling in time-

_“It’s either that, or-“_

Like an echo in the back of his brain. It was getting harder to move, to breathe and-

He wanted to smile, just a little, but his lips only managed to tremble. There was something funny about the situation, something he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Maybe it was the relief of finally just trying. Or the familiar sense of defeat. Or a sort of gallows humor, the nonexistent gods laughing above.

Temple was looking down at him, concern and fear in his crumbling expression, and the remote in his hand.

Grif closed his eyes.

_“…You die.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My fingers slipped.


	19. Blue Screen of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif heals.

The place was grey.

It was a weird contrast to the rest of his life so far. It seemed like it’d always been either red or blue.

Grif still remembered Blood Gulch. It’d been such a long time ago, but Sarge’s ways of home décor were hard to forget. The red carpets, the red towels, the blankets, the flag.

He’d tried to replicate the look in Valhalla, but it’d never felt the same.

And Temple’s lair had been so, so blue.

Like their visor. Before. In the present.

Now-

The grey was comforting in its own strange way. It reminded him of Kai. That this was her world.

The grass beneath him, colorless and dry, didn’t crunch beneath his boots as he moved forward.

_“Gri-“_

He’d wondered about this before, of course. Even back with Simmons. Was there a god? An afterlife?

He hadn’t quite believed in it.

And he certainly hadn’t expected this. After all the shit they’d gone through, death could at least be a littles less gloomy than this. Some color wouldn’t hurt. Some red there, some orange over here, a bit of maroon-

“What did you expect?” There was a soldier ahead of him, resting on the ground, legs crossed, arms raised, staring at the grey sky. It reminded Grif of something, a scene long ago, of red hair and laughter. The soldier tilted his head, visor focused on him now. “That was pretty fucking stupid.”

“Yeah,” Grif shrugged. “I mean, suicide missions usually are.”

The soldier snorted before standing up, limbs slow and stiff as he straightened out his back. Grif couldn’t see his color – he was just grey. But his voice was familiar. “I don’t get it. We’re not on Chorus anymore. No one is ordering us to get shot any longer.”

“But at least Sarge’s proud.” Grif turned his head to watch another soldier stroll down alongside the bunker. He almost blended in with the grey metal. “I guess we’re a pretty good meat shield.”

“Except we didn’t shield anyone,” Grif had to point out. He faintly remembered the warmth from the bullets, the look on Temple’s face.

He’d hurt Temple.

At least he had that to comfort himself with. It was something he could tell the others when they asked (which they wouldn’t/couldn’t now), and they’d never be able to beat this. And they would never be able to break Temple like that.

So maybe that meant that Grif had won.

“Against who?” one of the soldiers asked him.

Grif shrugged and sat down and tried to feel the grass between his fingers. “Hell if I know. Hey, if this is supposed to be heaven, shouldn’t it be _nice_ or something? I’d vote for a beach and-“

“Maybe it’s Hell,” one of them suggested.

“No,” another one argued, "that’d be hotter.”

“Don’t we like the heat?”

Grif hummed thoughtfully. He wasn’t quite sure what this place was, though it seemed familiar – and that couldn’t be case because you only die once.

Unless you’re Church.

But even Church had-

_“Bi-“_

“Man, afterlife sucks,” Grif said and he sighed.

The soldiers turned to face him, one by one. “What did you expect?” one of them snorted. “A fanfare?”

“Confetti?”

“Simmons is in charge of the confetti,” Grif muttered under his breath.

Color began to seep into his vision now, like the sky when the sun rose. Orange tainting the armor piece by piece until Grif found himself staring at… himself. Multiple versions of himself, he supposed.

Yeah, this had to be hell.

“That’d be fitting,” one of the orange soldiers agreed with him.

Grif didn’t even want to know how they could hear his thoughts. The sentence was haunting enough in itself, and while he’d always known he wasn’t exactly guiltless, he’d figured Hell was a bit above his level.

He’d saved a planet (hadn’t he?) and that should even things out. Who cared about petty wallet theft when you would later become a war hero?

Hell should be filled with people like Felix and- and Temple, but Grif-

“I’m not a villain,” he said, frowning as he watched the orange becoming a contrast to the grey.

“You’re not really a hero either, so…” The orange soldier in front of him frowned, lighting a cigarette.

Grif watched the smoke travel upwards, mixing with the grey. “I never claimed to be.”

“Who cares about it anyway? It’s just a stupid title. And a planet full of kissasses.”

“There’re a few benefits-,” another continued.

“-like the extra meals-“

“You like that, don’t you? Cheeseburgers. The cigarettes. We deserve the pampering, right?”

The orange soldiers were all around him now, speaking with his voice.

Grif frowned, feeling something cold run down his back. He remembered Temple’s smile whenever he’d returned home with a treat for Grif; the excited look in his eyes. “I mean, who’d say no to cheeseburgers…”

“Even if they’re from Temple? I mean, he isn’t that bad a guy. Right?”

He wanted to answer but his mouth felt dry.

Someone else spoke for him, and Grif spun around to see an orange soldier tilt their head. “A few murders here and there. A dangerous judge against your teammate, but, I mean, no one has given you cigarettes before.”

“It’s nice when someone cares.”

“Not a lot of people care.”

“ _You_ don’t even care.”

“Caring sucks,” Grif tried to cut into the conversation. They were standing around him in a circle, staring at him.

 “I guess that’s why we’re here.”

“I mean, we’re you.”

“And you’re us.”

“And this is your brain.”

“Isn’t it?”

“So I guess that means you’re pretty fucked up.”

Grif didn’t say anything. He stared at them, and they stared back, eyes hidden by visors. Some were orange, he realized, like his own, but others were blue, clashing with the orange armor plates beneath.

As he blinked, he became more and more aware of the changes between the soldiers, things he hadn’t noticed before now.

One’s visor had cracked, another was bleeding from a hole in his chest. One was screaming for Simmons, and another one was quiet.

Grif turned around, trying to watch all of them at once but they were too many, an endless amount of soldiers.

He caught the sight of an orange arm wrapped around cobalt shoulder plates. He heard their friendly whispers, and then he blinked, and he saw an orange soldier covering his partner’s back: the white and grey became one with the background, but he saw the flashes of sage before it too faded.

He heard Temple begging for him to breathe, and then Temple telling him to join the others in the circle, but he hadn’t pull the trigger, and yet Grif heard the gunshot echo.

Spinning around, he saw all the orange stand out from the grey, and Grif reached out a hand, the world freezing as he heard the final whisper from above:

_“-if-“_

* * *

The tank on his chest didn’t move. It hurt to breathe, hurt to move, and all he could do was to hear the voices:

“-you see? I told you – he won’t die-“

“-I still think-“

“-more-“

“-could be dangerous-“

“-but-“

“-if-“

There was a ringing in his ear, and it grew louder, until he was deaf as well as blind, and Grif slept.

* * *

Cold fingers travelled down his forearm and Grif shivered when he opened his eyes.

His vision was still grey. Metal. The ceiling, he realized slowly. His brain felt tired, foggy.

“You’ve been sleeping,” Temple told him softly as he hovered above him, allowing Grif to stare into his worried face. Even with his fuzzy vision, he could see the bags beneath his eyes, the deep furrows in his forehead.  “Sleeping for quite a long time. I suppose that’s one of your character traits, so there is nothing. To. _Worry about_.”

The brief laughter sounded nervous.

Grif wanted to say his name, but his tongue felt too dry, glued to the roof of his mouth. Something tasted foul. He managed to part his lips, but even that movement was soundless.

“You can keep sleeping,” Temple told him, touching his arm again. “If that’s what you want. We’ll take care of things from here. It worked. It really did, and we won and you- _why did you do that_?”

Grif wanted to answer, wanted to throw the truth in his face, but his eyelids were so heavy and Temple’s worried expression kept fading.

* * *

“Good morning.” Temple was the first thing he saw when he managed to open his eyes again. A hand cupped the back of his head, lifting it upwards. “Thirsty?”

Something cold was pressed against his lips, and Grif remembered his first weeks in Desert Gulch, when he’d been curled into a ball from the pain in his stomach.

Temple had kept him alive as well back then, but now he was more gentle.

He allowed the water to trickle into Grif’s mouth instead of almost choking him.

The bad taste remained, but the dryness disappeared to the point where Grif was ready to try to speak a word. “So,” was the first thing he said, and his eyes darted around to try to figure out where he was. The metal ceiling and blue light let him know that he was down in the lair again. “What the fuck happened?” he asked because he didn’t remember the journey from the Freelancer’s planet to here.

He only faintly remembered the voices: Temple’s and someone else’s…

“You got shot,” Temple told him. His fingers lingered on Grifs arm. He’d never understood how Temple’s skin could always be so cold. It was downright creepy. “A lot.”

“Oh.” Grif wanted to sit up. But not really. Most of all he wanted to go back to sleep – his eyes kept falling close. He could only just muster the strength to open them, and he couldn't even twist his hands as much as he wanted to. His body felt dead, stuffed with cotton, but he was alive. Somehow, he was alive. “Who called for Doc?” he asked, because he remembered the second voice now.

“I did.” Temple adjusted the orange blanket that was wrapped tightly around him. “He’ll be here to stick a needle in you in a moment.”

Grif blinked, feeling tired, feeling sore. “Sounds nice.”

“You’ll need the painkillers.” Temple’s worried face grew more and more fuzzy as he spoke, “We raided another stash for you. For the medical supplies. You gave us quite a scare.”

“So why the fuck am I not dead?”

“Because of this.” Temple held up the remote for him to see. He looked so goddamn proud. “Armor lock. Funny how it can be used to both save lives. And kill…”

The ringing in his ears returned. Nausea hit him as he began to feel faint, and Grif closed his eyes, let the darkness take him before he could start to throw up from the thought of the Freelancers rotting in their armor.

“Grif?” 

* * *

"I hate them so much,” Temple whispered when he thought he was asleep. Grif couldn’t manage to even try to open his eyes. He could imagine the crazed look on Temple’s face just fine. “But they’re _dead_. So very dead. And we’re alive. And _you_ are alive-“ 

* * *

 “Good morning,” Temple told him and helped him drink. It was a routine by this point, and Grif couldn’t remember how many days had passed. Maybe weeks? He was unaware how long he’d been out after the incident itself.

Maybe Temple had told him how long he’d been stuck in bed. Grif couldn’t quite remember. Every day it seemed like Temple would wish him a good morning and then Grif would fall asleep again, before he’d even spoken a word-

Grif slept.

* * *

Eventually he began to remember, and the nightmares set in, and he dreamt of rotten flesh and the bullet that had gone through Wash’ neck and Simmons falling in the lava instead of Gene.

He dreamt of staring into the mirror and seeing Biff’s face, of following Temple out of the base with the bullets still stuck in the gut, and sometimes Grif would be holding the remote in his hand. Carolina and Wash screamed at him when he pressed the button.

“No. No, no, no, no,” he’d say when he woke up, lips numb but moving as a fever seemed to wrack his body, sweating from the panic. “You want to kill me.” He’d stare into Temple’s eyes, and they would be as wide and mad as his own. “You tried. I’m- I’m losing my goddamn mind. You should- you should ki-“

Temple would frown and he would murmur soft sentences into his ear as he slid the needle into Grif’s arm, letting him know that it was alright, that it was healing, that the Freelancers were dead and dying, never able to harm them again.

* * *

“Oh, yeah, that’s a big scar. I bet that really hurt,” Doc said after removing the bandages. The wounds had healed now, leaving a mess of pink, scarred skin behind, covering most of his torso. It didn’t bother Grif – more scars just seemed to match with the rest of his damaged skin.

Doc saw the old damage as well, nodding towards the skin drafts. “You got a lot of scars, actually. Quite impressive! It’s not often you find a guy who’s been this close to dying so many times. Wow.”

“I’m very proud,” Grif said dryly. The new scars hurt when he moved. Just another reason to lie down and give up on the world.

“Well, it’s more manly than my teapot collection, that’s for sure.” Doc leaned closer to put the bandages back on, and Grif tried not to flinch. “But you should take it easy for a while. You still don’t look too good. And I’m just talking from a medical experience, of course.”

“Doc, if I told you I’d travelled in time and that I need to kill Temple, would you sedate me?” Grif rested his head against his pillow, not even expecting an answer.

“I’d offer you some painkillers, for sure!” There was a nervous laughter before Doc’s voice cracked as he asked him, “Do you- Do you want some more painkillers? Grif?”

* * *

Grif didn’t get many visitors. Temple would spend most of his time with him, except when they had to leave to kill more people. Grif always slept then, Doc being in charge of watching him.

He wasn’t allowed to leave his room. That restriction didn’t bother him as he doubted he’d even make it to the door.

But sometimes Loco was stop by, becoming the only sort of entertainment in the otherwise empty room. He’d sit in the chair next to Grif’s bed, watching him with big eyes. “I’m glad you’re not dead,” Loco told him today, keeping his fingers busy with a broken toy. “So many people die.”

“People you kill usually die,” Grif reminded him.

“Yes,” Loco said, nodding. “Yes, that’s usually the case.”

* * *

“One step at a time.”

Temple kept a firm grip on his arm, refusing to let Grif fall, even when he stumbled over his own legs.

“I know how to walk,” he said, eager to leave his room for the first time in so many months, even if his view was just replaced by more metal walls as he stumbled down the hallway.

“Oh, but going from theory to practice is quite the leap,” Temple said knowingly, as if he’d been taught that lesson over and over.

Grif ignored the pain in his torso and kept going, one foot in front of the other. “So,” he asked through gritted teeth, “how is your plan going?”

Despite his narrowed eyes, Temple kept up a smile. “Don’t you worry about that,” he said while adjusting his grip on Grif’s arm.

“I-“

“You’re not coming along for another mission, if that’s what you’re asking for,” Temple let him know. His voice had turned dangerously dry and he turned his head to stare directly into Grif’s eyes.

Grif was the first one to lower his glance. “I’m not,” he said, wincing as he felt as legs grow weaker. It’d been too long since the last time he’d walked on his own. “Seems like my bad luck wants me dead.”

Temple nodded gravely. “Seems like it.”

* * *

When Grif had opened his eyes this time, he’d been alone. He’d thought it would be worth the consequences later on, that he could talk himself out of the situation.

Like in his nightmares, he slowly moved down the hallways, listening for the others’ footsteps but only hearing the water dripping from the leaking pipes.

By the time he found the door, his legs were shaking so badly he collapsed against it. It didn’t open.

Grif was almost grateful that it was locked. He wasn’t quite sure if he could handle the smell he knew was inside the room.

But he needed to know, needed to see this sign to prove that he was stuck in a timeline he’d already witnessed. That Temple’s plan was coming along nicely, and there was nothing Grif could do about it. There was nothing he could change.

So why bother to try?

Gene found him first, watching Grif slide down the locked door in defeat. “Temple says you’re too sick to leave your room, so you really shouldn’t be here,” he said, shrugging.

Grif could imagine the smell seep through the crack in the metal, the flesh rotting inside the armor-

The maroon soldier jumped back just in time to avoid getting vomit on his boots. “I’m not cleaning that up,” he said, glaring at Grif in distaste. 

* * *

“How many?”

It took some seconds before Temple realized what he was referring to. He smiled, relaxing in his chair. “Ten so far. But the number will grow, of course.” His smile only grew wider as he offered him, “I can show you Agent Alaska if you want. I understand if you have a need for revenge- It’s very natural!”

Grif stared at the ceiling, wondering why he wasn’t dead. “No thanks.” He tried not to blame himself. Now he knew that there was nothing he could do, that the future was already set. His stunt with the Freelancer had convinced him he should just stop trying.

It didn’t stop him from feeling sick, though.

A cold hand was placed on his forehead. “You look pale. Should I fetch Doc?”

“You know it’s messed up, right?” Grif asked him, voice hoarse. His chest hurt like hell whenever he coughed. Even when he breathed, it also felt sore.

Temple stared back at him, eyes so grey and firm. “I do,” he said, and his tone convinced Grif that he was telling the truth. “That’s how justice works. Eye for an eye – you can’t do that without a little gore.”

It just made Grif feel sick again, but Temple noticed face taking a green hue and offered him some pills to help with the nausea.

Grif accepted them gratefully, hoping they would make him fall asleep.

Sleeping was the best way to spend the time now. He was just waiting for what would eventually happen.

He supposed it was a good thing, that it was the only way to end this.

Still, he couldn’t help but dread it.

* * *

Temple tried to make him play chess, cooing at him, saying he missed the old days.

But when Grif sighed, saying he was too tired, he let go of the idea. Instead he brought in his datapad so they could watch a movie, letting Grif pick a title.

He’d seen all the movies before, so he chose the first option he was offered, and as Temple watched the movie with great interest, Grif buried his face against his pillow.

He couldn’t bring himself to care, not when he already knew how it would end. 

* * *

“Stay here. Take a nap.” Temple put on his helmet, becoming a phantom of Church. He turned to face Grif, letting him stare into the orange visor. “The surface isn’t safe and we all know that you are bad luck. No offense.”

Grif nodded. He didn’t bother to argue.

“We’ll bring them down here afterwards,” Temple promised him. He couldn’t hide the excitement in his voice. He’d been waiting for this day for so long, talking Grif’s ears off as he’d let him know just how close the Reds and Blues had come. “I’m sure you’ll be a nice surprise for them.”

Temple waved goodbye to him as he stepped into the elevator with the others, ready to welcome the Reds and Blues to Desert Gulch.

The sound of the dripping water echoed as he was left alone.

Then Grif spun around, limping to his room where Temple had stored his armor. He put on each piece carefully, wincing when they pressed against sore skin but continued until he was covered by the orange plates.

Time was almost up now.

He’d _waited_ for this day. Back when he’d rested against the rock, waiting for the portal to appear. When he’d been sick and thought himself dying. When he’d played chess with Temple, when he’d done whatever he needed to do to survive.

He’d waited for them, to see them again.

They sure as hell hadn’t saved him, but now it was time to come face to face with them.

And so Grif put on Biff’s helmet.

The silence was broken by voices bouncing against the metal walls, and Grif followed the noise, finding the two groups staring at Loco’s machine.

Simmons was the first one to spot him, freezing at the sight. “Grif?”

Grif shook his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be crazy. Very crazy. I dread it. I'm so sorry, guys.


	20. ERROR_FILE_CORRUPTED

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is made of circles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember what I said in my very first note to this fic? "Witness me mess up everything."

“This is Grif,” Temple said as he wrapped his arm around Grif’s shoulders, giving him a squeeze. “With two F’s.”

He could see Simmons’ shoulders slump forward in… what? Disappointment? Relief?

The tension was still there, no matter what, keeping his back oddly straight. Temple could only imagine the pain he’d have in his limbs when he woke up in the morning. If you could feel anything in cyborg limbs, of course. But that would explain why Simmons could keep being so… _tense_.

At this point, he was almost worse than Gene.

Simmons wasn’t even looking at Temple. He was just staring straight at Grif who was saying nothing, naturally.

And so Temple had to talk for him. “He doesn’t like strangers,” he said, remembering the first weeks after Grif had arrived, apparently out of nowhere. How he’d ignored them at first, staring into nothing, then talking to people who hadn’t been there. And when he’d finally acknowledged their presence, he’d fought them, insulted them.

But eventually, things had changed. “He’s shy,” Temple explained further, nodding. It was probably not the right word. ‘Traumatized’ was probably better, but Temple still knew way too little about his past.

Simmons seemed to be trying to say something. There was this pathetic noise coming from his helmet, like a squeaky yelp from some vermin being stepped on, but then Donut entered the scene and stole everyone’s attention.

“GRIF?!” he screamed, hands clasped against the side of his helmet. Everyone in the group – well, _groups_ now -seemed to freeze.

Except Caboose who walked down towards the orange soldier with quick steps, arms spread out. “Gruf!”

Grif wriggled out of Temple’s grip to back away, holding up his hands to shield himself. “No hugs!” he exclaimed, stopping Caboose in his tracks. “I don’t know you.” He breathed in deeply, repeating himself, “I don’t know you.”

And finally Caboose let his arms fall.

“This is awkward,” Grif said, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “I think- I think we-“

“This isn’t Grif, Caboose,” Simmons finally explained. His voice was oddly calm now. Temple had expected him to have a major break-down by this point. “It’s just… _their Grif_.” The tone was so cold, it was hard not to flinch.

“Wow.” Grif smacked his lips. “Should I be offended? I think I should.”

“Then… where is Gruf?” Caboose asked loudly.

Everyone fell silent. Temple tilted his head in curiosity. He liked when they tried to explain their own foolish actions.

“He’s still on the moon, Caboose,” Tucker replied to him, sounding bitter. “Where he wants to be.”

When the awkward silence continued, Temple slammed his hands together, announcing, “Everyone seems to have met everyone now. Let’s-“

“Why weren’t you on top?” Donut asked him. “Instead of hiding down here!”

Grif actually considered replying to that question but Temple was faster, stepping in front of him as he explained, “He’s recovering from an almost fatal injury. This is not the first time the UNSC has attacked us.”

His dark tone seemed to work since the group abandoned the subject. A few of them even took a step backwards. “Oh,” Donut said and like the rest of them, he was staring at Grif.

Which meant it was time to retreat before Grif could seriously destroy this timeline. It’d taken enough damage already. “I’m just gonna go to my room,” he said, quickly turning to limp down the hallway in the opposite direction. “Headache.”

At least that excuse wasn’t a lie.

* * *

“Let me see,” Temple said as his fingers travelled gently along the scarred skin. It was still pink and sore, but at least he could no longer tear his torso open by accident.

“Since when have you become the doctor?” Grif asked as he tried to get used to the touch. Temple’s skin was always so cold.

Temple laughed. “Don’t worry – I’ll leave that uselessness to Doc.” He put the bandages back on, giving his shoulder a slight pat. “You were more sarcastic than usual today. In the mean way.”

“Yeah, well- I don’t appreciate strangers.” Biting the inside of his cheek, Grif tried to figure out his plan. So far he hadn’t done anything. Which was a perfect plan, of course.

Just sit back and watch the chaos happen before him.

There wasn’t anything he could do, after all. Set timelines and all that. The scars on his stomach proved as much.

All he could was watch the scenes play out while he tried to stay in the background as much as possible. He’d rather not break anything, accidently cause the universe to collapse, or shit like that.

Plus watching his teammates again, like this, just left him with that strange unpleasant feeling in his stomach. He’d rather stay in bed.

But to be fair, in all circumstances, no matter what, Grif would always prefer to stay in bed.

“You know why they are here,” Temple said.

He did. “Yeah.”

“They might stay. They might not,” Tempe mused out loud. “It’s their choice, in the end.”

He leaned away from him, going to the counter to place the rest of the bandages in their medic box that Doc had brought along. Grif stared at the wall, frowning, “Why don’t you tell them about Biff?”

He could see Temple’s shoulders tense. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, rather briskly.

“It’s the reason why you are doing this,” he pointed out dryly. “It obviously matters, unless you’ve just lost the thread of what you’re doing.”

“I don’t think they care enough about orange soldiers to understand.”

The room fell quiet at Temple’s response.

“What will you do if they say no?” Grif finally asked, head still lowered while Temple looked over his shoulder to stare at him. Grif already knew the answer, of course. He’d lived it.

“I’ll just give them back to their beloved UNSC.” Temple returned his focus on the cupboard again, picking up the knife that had been lying on top of it. Grif supposed it was Gene’s. Temple chuckled softly as he held it out in front of him. “Is this a dagger which I see before me? It sure is!” He turned his head again, asking, “Have you ever read Shakespeare?”

“Not unless he made comics,” Grif replied, shrugging.

“You should follow my advice,” Temple said as he walked back towards him.

“Not like I’ve not had enough time,” Grif had to admit. He’d had more time than he’d prefer.

* * *

“You don’t like Gene?”

Grif froze, clutching the tray filled with today’s lunch to the point where he knew his knuckles must have turned white. Not that he could see that change – he was wearing armor all day now, always making sure to keep on his helmet.

He could pass as Griff quite easily as long as his face remained hidden. Even he couldn’t figure out a lie well enough to explain how he’d managed to gain the same scars as their Grif.

So to keep the universe somewhat intact, he had to eat alone in his room.

He could live with that.

When he heard Simmons’ voice, he first thought it was Gene. It was probably a bad sign showing how long he’d been stuck in this mess, how accustomed he’d become with his situation, that he’d think of Gene first.

He turned around to glare at Simmons through his visor, waiting for him to explain himself further.

The maroon soldier was looking at the floor, twiddling his thumbs. “I, uhm, I just noticed that you- you don’t seem to like him. You don’t talk a lot and I-, uhm- I noticed.”

Which meant Simmons had been watching him. That shouldn’t be a surprise, really. While Grif had been sure to keep his distance, he knew the nerd was too curious. He… understood. It must be strange, leaving one Grif behind, and then finding another.

He was probably just a bitter reminder of that scene back on the moon.

That it was impossible to get rid of orange soldiers, even when you tried so hard. Even when you left them behind on an isolated moon.

Or sent them back in time.

Grif set his jaw.

“Yeah, I’m not a fan of selfish, narcissistic kissasses who only care about saving their own skin,” he said dryly just for the effect of Simmons letting his hands fall in shock. “You don’t seem to like Gene either.”

Simmons had obviously regretted his decision about bringing up the subject. He kept looking over his shoulder, trying to back way. His voice stuttered as he said, “He, uh, he’s kind of a jerk.”

Well, Grif wasn’t disagreeing to that.

“Which is quite funny,” Grif told him, “’cause you two are so alike.”

He knew he was being unfair. That he was being petty. But Simmons was the pettiest guy he knew, and he’d been saving his frustration for more than a year now. Even if this wasn’t the right Simmons to yell at.

Simmons’ stutter grew worse. “I’m not- We’re- we’re not just clones.”

“Looks like we are,” Grif shrugged. Everyone was so alike that sometimes he could just pretend-

“But you’re nothing like Grif,” Simmons insisted. His voice grew stronger with a frown, raising his head to look at him again.

Grif tilted his head. “Really?” The irony in this situation was amazing, and yet he had no one to talk about it with.

“I mean, you haven’t left your team yet,” Simmons said, stating the facts.

Grif wish he’d been stuttering. “But you got a stick up your ass. Exactly like Gene,” he said to reinforce his side of the argument.

It worked.

There was a small noise from Simmons that never really turned into a word. Then he spun around on his heel and walked away.

Grif unclenched his hands, watching him go. At least this way he was left alone. He had a universe to keep intact and all that.

Still, there was a bitter taste in his mouth he couldn’t quite get rid of. Was he angry? Probably. But he was pretty sure he had the right to be angry.

 “That looked like quite the cat-fight,” Doc said, using his ability to appear out of nowhere. He looked at Simmons who was retreating down the hallway, then at Grif. “Are you okay?”

“Well, he didn’t punch me in my bullet wounds if that’s what you’re asking. Simmons doesn’t sink that low.” That was the truth. Simmons was more of the passive-aggressive type, giving you the cold shoulder, throwing your fave MRE out without warning you, never saying a word as they leave you behind.

“Yeah, Simmons tends to stick with passive aggressive messages that he first replies back to two days later,” Doc agreed. “My inbox is still full, actually.” He laughed nervously, and sometimes Grif almost forgot how he wasn’t the only one who knew the Reds and Blues. “Have you talked a lot with him? You seem to know him well-“

That made it easier to make mistakes.

“I just… know Gene. I guess.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know there’s a difference, Doc! It’s just… easy to forget.”

“Understandable. It gets so confusing at times. I’m so glad there’s only one of me.”

“So am I, Doc. So am I.”

* * *

Grif wasn’t brought along to mining rig with the others. He asked to stay back in the base, and Temple, of course, allowed him. He wasn’t even given a choice when the others left to find the Freelancers.

Maybe Temple also had the bad flashbacks about the last time Grif went on a hunt for agents.

He hadn’t been there to welcome the guys when they returned. What was he supposed to say? ‘I hope you’ll enjoy your stay here – by the way, you’ll almost starve to death’.

So he’d lurked in the background, only leaving his room to grab some food – which happened every hour, really. Maybe he was becoming a bit twitchy.

And maybe he should have cut down on his number of snack trips as the Freelancers managed to catch him in the middle of the hallway, freezing at the sight of him.

It was Carolina who asked the inevitable question, “You’re not the real Grif. Right?”

“No, I’m…” He trailed off, tasting something bitter in his mouth. He waved his hand around, as if that could help explain the situation. “Two F’s.”

That was enough. “Oh,” Wash said, understanding. They’d already met Gene – he was the perfect example of whom Griff was supposed to be, just as an orange lazy version.

“We didn’t see you at the island,” Carolina said, obviously wanting to start a big conversation about Grif.

It was hard not to sigh.  Grif waved towards his torso, as if they could see the bandages beneath the armor. “No, I’m… recovering. There was an accident. With the UNSC.”

Wash nodded. “Temple did say they are hunting us down.”

“It’s safer down here.” Grif almost bit his tongue as he continued, “Your Grif- I heard he isn’t with you and-“ He wasn’t sure what he was trying to achieve. He could change how things were going to work out, but knowing that right now, somewhere else, another version of him was losing his mind was not pleasant.

“We should return for him,” Carolina said, comfortingly firmly. “He might not want to come along with us, but he needs to be warned that it’s no longer safe.”

Grif had always wondered what Carolina had thought when he quit. A small part of him had been curious if she understood. They probably wouldn’t count as the best of pals, but they’d gotten to know each other during their relaxation sessions. He’d enjoyed those days. Fishing with Carolina, napping, playing with the band. He’d missed that when they left. He’d wondered if she did too. “You-“

“Grif!” Temple said as he stepped out of the kitchen, taking big steps towards him before wrapping an arm around his shoulders. After giving Grif a squeeze, he nodded in the direction of the Freelancers to greet them. “Agent Washington. Agent Carolina. It’s good to see that you could keep each other company while I was busy. But you should know not to exhaust yourself. Did you take your pills? I think you should take a long nap while I show our new guests around the lai- base. You look exhausted.”

The hidden meaning was not to be missed. Grif had to leave, because Temple wanted it, because that was how this timeline worked.

He gulped. “I’m sorry,” he said, supposedly apologizing for his early departure.

“It’s fine,” Carolina told him. “We can talk later.”

No, they wouldn’t. Grif thought that, but he couldn’t say it out loud.

* * *

The next person he bumped into was Dylan, and judging by the recorder attached to her armor, Grif doubted it was an accident.

He began to walk faster but she followed right at his heels. “Can I ask you some questions?” she said, fingers already reaching for her gear.

“No,” Grif told her without looking. “No, you cannot.” He winced when he accidently pulled his sore skin in his eagerness to get away.

It didn’t work. Dylan was still right next to him, keeping up even when he took a random turn to throw her off. “Why the hostility?” she asked innocently.

Because it was her fault. Her need to ask questions had been the reason why he’d snapped in the first place. If she’d just left him alone- “I’ve never been a fan of the press,” he answered dryly.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said and even managed to sound somewhat sincere. “Look, I’m just curious about the-“

“You don’t want to talk with me.”

“Why not?” Dylan asked, still talking to him.

He tried to wave her off, feeling the tightness in his chest again. Time for his pills. Something to help him sleep with all of this going on. “Because I’m crazy,” he told her. “Delirious. Sleep-deprived. High on painkillers. Just leave me alone, alright?”

He’d finally reached the door to his room, allowing him to breathe a little easier.

“Do you need any help?” Dylan asked him. She was just looking at him, waiting for an answer.

“I’m fine,” Grif said and disappeared behind the door.

* * *

The others’ decision didn’t change. Temple had them locked up in the cells with the exception of Sarge who joined their team. That meant 2x Surge to deal with (or 2x Sarge, if you thought about it the other way around).

So that meant Grif was _technically_ working together with Sarge, which was disturbing as hell and probably showed that both of them had lost their sanity.

“Do you think they’ll change their minds?” Grif asked him one day, trying to get used to the fact that Sarge was their teammate. For now. He knew it wouldn’t last long.

Sarge let out a low huff. “Give ‘em some time. They’re numbnuts but they figure things out eventually. ‘specially Simmons. Boy is just going through his late rebellion teenage phase. Not a pretty sight. It’s probably the heartbreak.”

Grif tried to pretend he hadn’t heard the last sentence. He didn’t want to ask into it. So instead he dared to ask the question, “What about your orange soldier?”

“Grif?” Sarge snorted while shaking his head in disappointment. “If I know that boy right, his nap hasn’t even ended by the time we beat the UNSC.”

* * *

“Fish?” Tucker groaned when Grif entered the brig to keep them alive with their daily trays of breakfast. Apparently they didn’t appreciate the effort. “Again?”

Normally one of the Fanatics would suffer this chore but today Grif had volunteered. He wasn’t quite sure why.

“Stop your whining,” Grif replied dryly as he pushed the tray through the bars. “I’ve been eating it for years.” That was the truth. Of course Temple had brought back the so-called treats when he left on a mission, and Grif had appreciated the change instead of the regular meal that had quickly become boring and far too healthy. But of course he could have survived just fine without Temple’s gifts.

Tucker narrowed his eyes, nodding his head towards Grif’s gut. “Yeah. Plenty of it from the looks of it.”

The thing about fat-jokes was that they became boring in the end. “Are you done?” Grif asked him as he continued down between the cells to feed the others.

But as always Tucker wanted the attention turned towards him so he began to pull the bars of his cell, yelling, “Hell no I’m not! Let us out, you fat piece of-“

“Tucker, what did I tell you about the gentle approach?” Donut said, tilting his head towards their jailer. “Grif won’t listen to you if you start out with insulting him!”

“Took you long enough to figure that one out,” Grif muttered under his breath. He’d reached Simmons’ cell now, and when he looked up he stared right at the maroon soldier. He’d taken off his helmet, apparently ready for the meal, though his expression was anything but hungry.

Simmons was pale with bags under his eyes. His freckles looked so visible on the sickly-looking skin. He didn’t even stare at Grif as he was handed the tray, instead he just kept his head low. He looked tired. Maybe guilty. Grif hoped he felt guilty.

The strange feeling was back to torment his stomach again.

“Wrong,” Caboose said loudly, chewing on their cold piece of fish. “Mister Sergeant always said the easiest way to get Gruf’s attention is a creative humiliation. Drawings count if you write mean things next to the figures.”

Grif backed away from Simmons’ cell, suddenly too aware of the locks that he could so easily temper with. It’d be so easy. Letting them out and-

He remembered the feeling of the bullets piercing his stomach, and he flinched, fleeing from the brig while the knot in his gut grew bigger.

“He won’t listen to us anyway. Way too busy kissing Temple’s ass.” Tucker flipped him off as he limped past his cell, and the Blue yelled after him, “Temple should follow the mainstream and dump you on a moon!”

* * *

“-stuck in the vent!” Temple threw his head back, laughing. “Gene calls you a fatass but you have nothing on this guy! You should see it, you should-“

“I’m fine,” Grif said shortly. He’d arrived now, the other version of him. Temple had just marched him to the cells, which meant Locus was somewhere here too and-

And he wasn’t even sure what that meant. Except that time was almost running out. And when that happened, he wasn’t sure what would come next.

Temple noticed his change of mood and put a hand on his shoulder. “Trust me, I get why seeing your own copy would be unsettling-“

“You don’t have one. Church is dead.”

That was the point of this whole thing. Church was dead. The others tried to save him. Grif stayed behind. And no matter what, Church was still dead, and Grif couldn’t even bring himself to gloat about being right.

“True,” Temple admitted. “But I can sympathize.”

Grif thought about Freelancers rotting in their armor, and Wash and Carolina slowly starving to death, and he wondered if Temple truly had the ability to sympathize. “Can you?”

“You don’t have to visit the cells again,” Temple promised him as a comfort. “Time to move our stuff to the ship. Bright new future ahead! Can you imagine that?”

Grif couldn’t.

He had no idea where this was going, and there was no choice but to sit back and watch things play out.

So he followed Temple to the ship, leaving the others behind on the isolated planet as they flew towards Earth.

* * *

The Fanatics made everything feel more crowded. Grif wasn’t even sure where Temple had picked them up from. They had just slowly started to appear while he’d been out of it, recovering. He wouldn’t be surprise if Temple had kept them in a locker while keeping them a secret from the others.

But now they were everywhere, filling the entire base. Some of them running outside to greet the Reds and Blues when they arrived, others staying behind to guard the machine – and Grif.

“I don’t need bodyguards,” Grif said after getting tired of hearing the proper way to kill a baby seal. He shoved the fanatics away to get to Temple.

But that was only to be brushed away by the leader. “You know what they say, Grif. A man can die but once – except in your case.” He gave him a small smile before putting on his helmet. “We’ve had a lot of close calls, so please lift this extra burden from my mind.”

“You want me to stay out of the fighting,” Grif said.

“There won’t be any fighting! They’ll be stopped before they even get close.” He put a hand on his shoulder. “Hasn’t my plan worked perfectly so far?”

“Yeah-“ Grif sighed. “So far.”

And then Temple pulled away from him, heading towards doorway, ready to go to the machine. “Don’t worry – they won’t get down here.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

Temple took the time to turn and look at him as he said, “I just need to try to- _fix_ things.”

“You know, Temple,” Grif said, staring back him, “sometimes things are just broken. Don’t bother to try fixing it. Waste of effort.”

“Maybe you should learn a thing or two about patience. Endurance. What you can do when you really set your mind to it. Like this. I _achieved_ this. Bet they didn’t expect that from a Sim Trooper!” He turned away again, leaving the room. “You know what? I’ll teach you just how powerful we can be when I return. And we can read Shakespeare! Or watch the play. You get to pick.”

He stepped into the hallway and was joined by Loco. He waved at Grif. “Goodbye, Grif with two F’s.”

Grif couldn’t bring himself to wave back.

* * *

He should stay in the room.

But he should also leave.

The Fanatics made the choice for him. When the voices could be heard – “I think it’s this way, Sarge!” – they sprung into action. The hallway was the place of the action, and they left the door open as they began shooting at Red Team.

And so Grif ran. If he stayed in the room, there was no way the Reds would just ignore him, and he couldn’t come face to face with himself. He wasn’t sure what would happen, but he knew it was bad. All his experiences with sci-fi movies told him that. His gut repeated the bad feeling, until the point where he felt sick.

Maybe the timeline would unravel. Maybe things would just… start over. Or fade. He wasn’t sure.

But he knew that when the other Grif came too close, it was time to move. The Reds wasted no time dealing with the Fanatics. That was no surprise, really. They were basically living target practice, perfect for Sarge’s shotgun.

Grif wasted no time limping away.

He could outsmart them. It wasn’t that hard, actually – Sarge was among them, for fuck’s sake – but he knew what they were going to do. How things would turn out. He knew which passages they would take, that soon they would turn a corner and face Surge and-

Then it’d be just Grif and Simmons.

And an extra Grif.

He kept thinking about that as he moved forwards, being chased by himself as he tried to get away – or get to Temple. The place was on lockdown now, more and more doors being shut close while bullets flew through the air.

It annoyed him. Really. That one Grif could be fighting alongside Simmons while he was fleeing, trying to get away from them. It wasn’t fair. It didn’t make sense.

The Grif with Simmons would disappear. Fall through a portal. Maybe stare at a rock for some weeks.

Would that mean another Grif would show up? Would Grif get to stay? What happened when the time caught up with itself?

Maybe Simmons would know. He was smart like that. But it wasn’t like Grif could ask him.

His scars were burning beneath the armor, and it was hard to resist the urge to just throw off the plates and reveal himself and let his body breathe- but then he’d be seen, and they’d know-

The air seemed to get caught in his throat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been running. He’d always hated the exercise, avoided it at all costs, but he’d been so sore since the accident, so tired, always dragging his feet-

The last time he’d been running had been when he’d tried to reach Alaska-

Running was never worth it-

So Grif stopped, right at the other side of the door, next to the panel. He was bad at running. So slow, and the Freelancers had always yelled at him to hurry up when they ran laps. But he’d always been slow, no matter what, because he didn’t want to run faster, his legs burned, his lungs hurt, sleeping was the best option.

And that meant Simmons would be the first person out of that door.

Grif slammed a fist against the panel the moment he saw a flash of maroon. He slammed the panel again and again, until the glass broke and the door was locked.

That meant Grif and Simmons was separated.

And now Simmons was alone with Grif.

“Grif!” Simmons yelled, slamming against the door before he became aware of the presence next to him. “Gri- Not you! One F. You- _Oh shit_.”

And then he reached for his gun.

Grif was faster and slapped it out of his hands, only to have Simmons lunge at him. An elbow in his sore stomach was enough to send Grif to the metallic floor.

Simmons landed on top of him.

And Grif thought of the storage closet back on Chorus, when they’d been lying against each other, hands tangled into the other’s hair, laughing-

Simmons reached for the gun, but Grif couldn’t let him do it. Using his weight to his advantage, just like Carolina had told him one time so long ago in a sparring session, he rolled them both over so he was pinning the maroon soldier against the floor.

“Fuck off!” Simmons yelled at him, staring into his visor while he squirmed.

“I can’t let you go in there and jinx everything again!” He couldn’t go through it again. Not more years spent in the past, over and over, becoming someone else, getting a new name- “Just stop it. _Ow_.”

“Then let go!”

“As if!” Instead he tightened his grip, and he realized, to his horror, that the feeling in his stomach was anger. And he didn’t know what to do with the anger. He wanted to punch Simmons, right there in the visor until it cracked and he could finally see his face again, the blue eyes and the freckles.

But he also wanted to hold him, making him stay right there, while the world would be messed up again. Just the two of them, forced to spend a moment together, before being thrown into another chaos.

Or maybe he just wanted to be held, again, but he knew Simmons had no intention of doing so. It was clear with the curses he threw in the face, the way he kept wriggling beneath his grip.

“Simmons,” he said-

And then footsteps came to the left of them, an orange soldier running in their direction, having found another way to get into the hall when Grif blocked his path.

Grif froze.

He had to stop this, had to stop himself, had to stop this from happening before-

Simmons must have noticed his grip slackened, that the orange soldier stole his attention and that Grif was already trying to get off from the floor-

“Oh no, you won’t,” Simmons snarled, willing to do anything to keep Grif from getting attacked, killed.

The knife sunk into Grif’s scarred stomach.

He fell back against the floor, fingers curling around the handle while Simmons leapt towards his teammate, fearing an ambush.

Grif tore the knife out of himself with shaking fingers while Grif and Simmons were reunited, telling each other that they were unharmed, that they were okay.

Grif bled while Simmons was tugged away by the wrist, being told to hurry, that they needed to find Temple and his machine before-

Grif was dying and he thought that maybe this counted as irony, that maybe the definition fit now. That it was ironic: Simmons killing Grif, Simmons saving Grif.

It was like a circle. Caboose has said that once. Time was made out of circles.

Over and over and-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   
  
  
  
  
  
  
_

_

_

_initiating_//program.veeC//  
                      _StartMeUp(:)  
_initializing_  
_Buenas.dias.()pendejos//;

_W//ink

</DUDE>

                      _start “V.I.C” “C:/Files_Corrupted (x69) \W.ink”

 

 

 

 

 

Wow. That turned dark reaaaally fast.

Good thing good old VIC is here to hold your hand and say everything is gonna be just alrighty.

 

Bet ya didn’t see that coming, did ya?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of things to explain.
> 
> But I won't.
> 
> Instead I'll let Vic explain in the next chapter.


	21. V.I.C. (Very Important Conclusion)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vic has a monologue.

So.

Space.

Very big, huh.

Lot of space.

In space.

See what I did there? That’s called a wordplay.

Gotta spicy up my rhetoric skills for this monologue.

Remember when we did that rewind thing? What a trip, my dudes, what a trip. We saw the whole thing. The whole thing!

We saw before the beginning and after the beginning and the beginning of the beginning!

_And_ we also saw other beginnings. And endings. Actually, we saw a whole bunch of stuff that didn’t even exist. Think about that.

Because _that_ is craaa-zy.

Remember the multiverse theory? How we might just be a part of someone’s dream. Really leaves you wondering what sort of person would dream about Lego and Rule 63. Deep stuff.

So we went on that crazy adventure together, got ourselves some laughs, got to fill some pretty deep plot-holes.

And so you ask me, V.I.C., you handsome collection corrupted data drives, how did you show us all that?

Well.

One simple answer to that, mi amigo.

 

I am god.

 

Wow.

Pure chills, am I right?

I see _everything_.

And not just because of all those nimble little cameras Project Freelancer installed. We are waaay beyond petty privacy invasion, my dudes.

Remember Temple’s time machine? That pretty sweet finale explosion? Well, that thing disappeared and I transcended, mi amigo. I transcended all the way up to the top.

Infinite power.

A pretty fucking glorious sight, if you ask me. It had everything, I tell you, everything! Light beams, angle choir – we’re talking about a holy experience.

I also heard there’s a universe where I was just zapped away with no shabang. I’mma blame that on budget cuts. Nothing says buzzkill like limiting an animation team, I tell you!

But I can’t worry about that. Because shit still happened, dudes and dudettes, and now I have the power. To see. Everything. All the universes.

Did I see the Reds and Blues as toy store products? I sure did! Did I see ‘em as run down an animation studio? You better believe it! Did I see ‘em beat up Temple? Yep! Did I see ‘em fail completely and die a horrible death? In more than one universe, I tell you! Did I see everything that can happen and what did happen and what shouldn’t happen and what would happen? I did!

Because I can!!!

Pretty much feels like an eternal Netflix binge.

But back to the universes. There’s a lot of them.

One where Grif didn’t fall through the portal and the group continued together to their next shenanigan. Sounds pretty boring if you ask me.

Then there’s a universe where he falls right through, and crazy shit happens. But you already saw that. Dude really has no luck. That gotta suck.

I mean, the worst part has got to be how easily he could have avoided getting stabbed in the gut. There has to be better ways to go out. Like, explosion plus time machine. Except I already copyrighted that way to kick the bucket. All the way into space. What a kick, what a kick.

But the keyword here is _imagination_. Time for the crayons, kiddos, we’re doing a brainstorm. Gotta refresh those creative brain cells. So what could have happened? _Everything_.

They could have fixed the time machine, done a little tinkering. _Or_ Temple could have been put in checkmate. _Or_ someone could have extended that fancy olive branch. _Or_ someone could have flipped the bird. _Or_ a meteor could have hit Armada 8. That could have happened. Who knows? I do. Fuck yes.

So much possible crazy shit. I even heard there’s a universe where the guy goes and joins that creepy lonely ex-mercenary. Funny how life turns out. Except when it fucks you over.

Just gotta enjoy the ride. Lean back in your seat and let it happen.

A lot of choices affect your fate.

Or as I would call them:

A lot of fuckups.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know the chapter is late, and yes, I know it's super short. But I felt like we should stop at the end of his monologue, so we can step into the new chapter with a fresh start.
> 
> So, I began this fic before s16, that actually ended up being about time travel theory - including the multiverse theory. Funny how that turned out.
> 
> Well, back when I planned this fic, I discussed the plot with my beta and she was like "so how are you gonna end it?". And that's the real question. Because there were so many things I wanted to show, but one fate excluded the other.
> 
> And then it hit me.
> 
> So here's my theory of how we had V.I.C. as out narrator in s14. In my mind, he kinda became a timeless being after melting together with the time machine. Therefor he can present all the universes.
> 
> And that's what he'll be doing in this fic...
> 
> I'm sorry for the weirdness. I tried to warn you. I really didn't expect the fic to be this long, but I got carried away with the Temple and Grif interactions. And I'm still not done.
> 
> Two or three chapters left, guys. We're almost there.
> 
> Also, just to let you know: writing Vic dialogue is painful. I have his voice stuck in my head now. I wrote a full chapter in his voice. It hurts. I want him out of my brain. I don't want that annoying voice to be stuck there. Get it out. It's so bad, my dudes, so bad.


	22. The Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It ends.

Remember that time Grif could have won that chess game with one single move? But he didn’t? ‘cause he didn’t make a single move.

Man, hindsight is a _biiitch_.

Oh well. Did you ever wonder what could have happened?

Because I sure did!

* * *

“Wait,” Grif said, leaning over the game board. His eyes widened at the realization. “I won. Dude, I won.”

“I can see that,” Temple said dryly, leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed. His sighed as Grif jumped from his seat.

“That’s a checkmate! Isn’t it? It is! It totally is! _I won_.”

With his hands tied, Temple had no choice but to knock over his own king. As Grif cheered, he rested his face in his palms. “Fine,” Temple said dryly, not attempting to hide his disdain for the defeat. “When do you want your cheeseburger?”

“Who said anything about burgers? Except, wait, is that on the menu tonight?”

“No, it’s fish. As always.” Temple tilted his head, looking at him with curious eyes. “I just assumed… It’s not like you haven’t begged for burgers before!”

“Dude, I still love burgers, but you said I could have anything. I’m not gonna waste it on burgers. Even with cheese. Cheddar. Oh man, now I want a burger – but not that badly, it’s not my wish!”

“Then what do you want?”

“Can’t I have some time to think about it?” Grif asked. The shock of the victory hadn’t quite settled in his body yet. Instead, it was like a constant buzzing tickling his skin, making him feel strangely energetic. He knew it wasn’t exactly a personality trait of his, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d lost his mind.

Rolling his eyes, Temple replied, “I think you’ve had enough time to think.”

“Shut up.”

“We’ve been playing for a long time-“

“You are being an ass today,” Grif said as he saw Temple’s lips move upwards in a sober sneer. But he couldn’t quite manage to feel angry, not knowing that he had the power now, that he had won.

But Temple’s foul mood continued for the rest of the day, constantly glaring at Grif with darkened eyes.

During the dinner, when Temple ended up biting down into a fork with no fish on it, eyes glued to Grif, the others began to take notice as well.

“Sooooo…” Cronut said, clearing his throat. “Did anything happen between you two?”

“No,” Grif said, mouth filled with whatever alien fish they’d caught today. “Things are normal. I still hate him. He hates me.”

“That’s called pining,” Cronut said, pointing his fork in Grif’s direction.

Grif had to suppress a shudder.

“I don’t want to be stuck with him if he’s lovesick,” Gene muttered into his glass of water. He quickly took a sip of it to hide his face as Temple finally moved his head to glare at him instead.

“I think you could manage. Unless you want to risk your life fighting Freelancers instead? I didn’t know you were that brave, Gene.”

The maroon soldier turned his frown towards his seared seafood. “I’ve been on missions before, you know,” he muttered under his breath.

“And the last time someone shot at you, I heard you scream,” Temple replied dryly.

And then his cold eyes rested upon Grif again.

But it was first later that night, when they were heading for the sleeping quarters, that Grif met his glance.

“I don’t want you to go,” he said, causing Temple to freeze in the middle of the hallway.  Mouth dropping, Grif’s hand reached up the rub the back of his neck. “Shit, that sounds way too cheesy and it’s not what I meant. Look, don’t go on whatever idiotic mission you’re planning.”

“Aw, because you care?” Temple rolled his eyes, turning to watch the water behind the glass wall instead. “C’mon. We both know that’s bullshit. We both know you’re gonna leave anyway.”

“Who said I’m leaving?”

“You won. I figured you’d spent your wish getting the fuck away from here.  I don’t know just _where_ you’d be going. We’re in the middle of nowhere and-“

“Earth,” Grif said. The whale swam by, casting shadows on his face. “I’ll spend the victory on going to Earth.”

Temple didn’t look surprised. His expression darkened, yes, but his eyes remained narrowed and cold. “ _Fine_. But I’m not giving you my ship.”

“Whatever. That doesn’t matter. Because you are coming with me.”

“Yeah… No.” He crossed his arms, rolling his eyes at the thought. “I’m quite busy, you know. Serving justice.”

“Well, your justice is stale and the taste is off. I think you should be doing something else.”

Taking one step closer to him, Temple moved away from the bright, blue color. “How so?” 

“You’re coming with me.”

* * *

“This is not what I had in mind,” Temple said, and he crossed his arms as he let himself fall deeper into the seat. His scowl had only worsened during their travel, and his eyes were focusing on the space in front of them now, instead of Grif’s face.

The orange soldier was humming happily, sitting behind the controls of a ship. Being the pilot was a familiar and therefor calming feeling in this timeline. It gave him a sense of control – something he’d been missing most of his life.

And he’d gained all that from winning a chess game.

Maybe he could learn to love the game after all.

“Trust me – it’ll be great.”

“I think you’ve lost your mind.”

“Definitely,” Grif said, snorting. “But you really shouldn’t be the one to judge. This beats killing Freelancers.”

Despite the array of stars and space dust in front of them, Temple didn’t seem to enjoy the view. “I have my doubts.” He continued to shuffle in his seat, acting as if he was sitting on a nail. “Is this really necessary? I’d expect you to just pack your shit and leave.”

“Well, I’d expect you to drug me to get me to stay.”

Temple didn’t reply to that. He just let out of a small huff, lips moving upwards.

“You’re gonna end up thanking me for this.”

“You’re coming with me back home when we are done with this waste of time,” Temple just told him coldly. “You get your wish. But it didn’t say you get to stay on Earth.”

“I know that,” Grif said, keeping his eyes on the stars.

* * *

He’d spent the entire trip wondering if he was doing the right thing.

Temple’s negativity didn’t help.

“We should go,” he said, backing away from the closed door as if it could burn him. “This is stupid. You are being stupid. We should just go.”

“My wish,” Grif reminded him, eyes darting around. He’d imagined his return to Earth to be more significant than this. The planet hadn’t changed much the years he’d been stuck in the army.

The city was quiet, a few cars going up and down the street. The apartment area was well lit, the lower homes having a garden connected to the building. A great place to raise a child, he supposed.

For a moment he was sure if Temple was going to run.

But then the door opened and the lady gasped.

Grif supposed he should have stripped out of his armor before knocking. Georgina had probably seen pictures of Biff wearing the orange color.

“Hi,” Grif said to fill the silence. “I’m Grif. That’s Temple-“

“Mark?” she said, eyes going even wider.

There was a soft sound of a child crying coming from inside the apartment.

* * *

“Can we go home yet?”  Temple asked an hour later, a toddler on his lap.

“Not yet,” Grif said, crossing his legs as he admired all the photographs on the wall. Most of them showed Biff. And it turned out that Temple had been right – Grif did look a lot like him. “She said she’s out making coffee.”

“So that’s what you came here for? Coffee and a Danish? C’mon.”

“It was a good cake.”

“You’re full of bullshit,” Temple spat at him, and the harsh tone caused the child in his lap to cry. He frowned, cursing under his breath, as he awkwardly tried to rock him back and forth while his eyes darted to the doorway, waiting for the mother to appear and take over the situation.

Grif nodded in the direction of the boy. “He’s cute.”

“What are you trying to prove?”

“Dude, you are so serious about avenging Biff or whatever you call it. But you weren’t the only one left behind.”

Sometimes he’d wondered how that would feel like. At the colony, he’d been sure that Kai would receive the grim news that he’d died in war. That she’d get a letter or an officer would show up at her doorstep, or whatever the procedure was.

“So what’s your point?” Temple asked him.

“If you blow up this planet, this family is going up in smoke too.”

The kid began to cry for his mom, and Temple handed him over wordlessly, eyes focused on Grif the entire time.

While Georgina went to the kitchen to calm her son, the two soldiers were left alone, sitting in opposite chairs.

Grif reached out to take another cookie, filling his mouth before saying, “You know, if you really want to piss on the UNSC, you should just… go ‘fuck them’. Move on. Live your life. Be happy. That’s the best pettiness you can shove in their face.”

“Like they’d notice that.”

“Sure. But why the hell ruin your life even more for their sake.” He nodded towards the photographs, towards the window, towards the world outside. “I think you could be happy. In your own creepy way. And I _know_ that a lot of other people would get a hell of a lot more happiness in their lives if you stopped trying to be a villain wanting to blow up the world. People tend to like the planet they live on.”

“What about you?” Temple asked him, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t see you flipping up the UNSC by dancing on flowers.”

“Yeah… A happy ending is hard to get.”

Rolling his eyes, Temple said, “And yet you think I can get one. _Please_.”

“I don’t think you are trying to get one,” Grif pointed out. Listening to the soft crying in the kitchen mixed with a gentle lullaby, he continued, “I think _they_ are trying.”

Unable to reply, Temple filled his mouth with a cookie. His eyes had gone distant, thoughtful. Like the ice had melted for a brief moment.

It wasn’t a big change.

But Grif saw it.

He just hoped it was enough.

“You’re coming back with me?” Temple asked him before they left the small apartment, Georgina waving goodbye to them.

Grif removed his helmet, letting himself breathe in the fresh air of Earth for a second. He’d missed it. The thought of home made his heart ache the same way as when he thought of his friends.

Some things couldn’t be changed.

But maybe, if he tried enough, he could influence this timeline.

“Where else would I go?” he said with a shrug, following Temple to the ship.

As they took off, he was sure he saw a ghost of a smile on Temple’s lips.

* * *

But honestly, all that pacifist-talk makes me think of Doc. And, really, who wants to think of Doc? You don’t run an army by telling them not to pull the finger. Gotta keep that kill-count up, my amigo.

Because who wants to listen to a story without explosions?! Death! Back-stabbing! Cliffhangers at every chapter!!!

I bet you’re all sleeping by now.

So let’s

change channel.

For the kill-count’s sake.

* * *

Temple found him in the office, face turned towards the glass window. “There you are,” he said, and Grif didn’t turn around at the sound of the voice. He couldn’t afford to. But Temple continued on anyway, keeping his voice cheerful. “I was going to ask if you were up for a game, but it seems like you were preparing the board already.”

It wasn’t quite the truth. This was the place where they would usually play – Temple loved to look at the whales and fish – but he hadn’t even touched the pieces yet.

“Actually, I have a question.”

Temple leaned against the desk, crossing his legs. “Shoot.”

Grif tried his best not to laugh. “Do you want to kill Caro- Agent Carolina?” he asked when he was sure that he was in control of the tone in his voice.

“Of course,” Temple replied with no hesitation. “And I have already planned how to do it. Why?”

“It’s just… Do you wonder how many would have lived if she’d died? I mean, one lost life, and you save a bunch. All the stuff you talk about when you get sentimental.”

“What?” Temple said, and slowly, as if afraid of scaring him away, he came closer. “How you changed your mind?”

Grif stayed in the shadows. “Maybe.”

“ _You_ admitting that I’m right?” He laughed hollowly at the thought. “I’m not quite sure if I’m dreaming.”

“It’s the right thing to do, right?” Grif stared into the glass, watching Temple inching closer in the reflection. “Kill some, save more?”

“That’s what the army taught us,” Temple said with a shrug, not trying to hide the bitterness in his voice.

Sighing deeply, Grif admitted, “I was never a good soldier.”

“And that’s why you belong with us,” Temple told him, only one step away now. If he wanted to, he could reach out to put a hand on his shoulder.

Grif closed his eyes. “I guess that’s why it all got so fucked up.”

“Huh?”

He never bothered to explain the entire thing to Temple. He doubted he would have understood it anyway.

And he would argue against, of course. That was to be expected.

Grif was about to kill him, after all.

He raised the gun he’d been granted when they had trusted him enough. He couldn’t bring himself to point it at Temple’s face. He’d tried that once and failed. It’d only mirror what had happened in another timeline, one where Grif had placed himself in front of the enemy.

So he instead he fired the gun at the glass wall.

He couldn’t hear the glass crack before the water hit him like a Warthog in full speed. It hurt, but he kept his eyes closed, even as his lungs began to burn.

He hoped that the others wouldn’t find them. He counted on it.

This was the only way to end this.

Right?

* * *

I know, I know. Vic, you son of a bitch, cheer up.

You say that and I say: “Take a breather, dude. Just chilllll. Relax. Inhale. And exhale. Feel better? Good. ‘cause I’m about to mess you up.”

Take two, everybody! Or three? Or four hundred and thirty-three? There are so many of them, it feels like an eternity!

Mainly because it is!

Remember that time Simmons went through the portal? That has to be like, what, twelve chapters ago?! Time flies fast. Actually, wait, it doesn’t. At least for me. Because I’m _awe_ -some!

Refresh those brain cells, folks, because we are. Going. _Back_.

* * *

“I don’t care, lemme-“ Simmons struggled against the hands pulling him backwards, kicking and lashing out, flinching when he felt his elbow make contact with a visor. “Wait! Wait! I can-“

“Simmons?”

The others must have recognized the voice too because their grips turned slack, allowing Simmons to pull himself free with a desperate gasp.

His feet stumbled in the sand, but he didn’t let that slow him down as he lunged forward, towards Grif’s voice.

Behind him, he faintly heard the others yell.

“Simmons!”

“Damnit, we need to stabilize it.”

“Vic, I need wish number three.”

But Simmons didn’t care. He rushed forward, towards the voice. He’d heard it, he was sure of that. “Grif! Grif!”

“Simmons?”

Appearing from behind a boulder, the orange soldier showed himself. His helmet was off, allowing Simmons to see how long his hair had grown. “Grif!” He didn’t even come to a halt. He grabbed Grif’s wrist and pulled him along, ignoring how heavy a weight it was.

While he tried desperately to get Grif back to the portal, he stared into his eyes, seeing the bags beneath them, the tired and glazed over look in them. “Please,” Simmons said, noticing the bright light of the portalin the corner of his eyes and feeling relieved for a split second. “It won’t be open for long.”

“What are you doing here?” Grif asked him.

“Saving you – what else should I be doing?! Please come, we need to hurry-“

“You really came?”

“Of course!”

“You took your sweet time.”

That was when Simmons recognized the look in his eyes – defeat. He gulped, not letting go of Grif’s hand, even when Grif refused to move his feet. “Well, you know us. Sarge had to argue first. But we did our best.”

Grif snorted, as if he didn’t quite believe him, as if-

Simmons wondered how long he’d been in this canyon.

“Please,” he said again when they stopped right next to the portal. He tugged the hand again, refusing to give up. “I just found you – we are so close – please-“

For a moment Grif’s eyes flickered towards the base in the background.

Simmons inhaled.

And then-

“I’m sorry,” he said. He didn’t tell him all the things he was sorry for – for not talking about what happened at the temple, for leaving Grif behind, for what he’d said about him out of bitterness, for not apologizing before now – because he didn’t have the time.

But he met Grif’s eyes and didn’t blink despite how his eyes burned.

Grif’s fingers squeezed his own.

Then they fell through the portal together.

Simmons’ back hit the floor first, Grif landing on top of him, and there was no air left in Simmons’ lungs when he wrapped an arm around Grif to keep him there, as if he’d disappear if he let go.

“Welcome back,” Simmona said, as the others helped them up, comforting pats on their shoulders, exclaims of triumph, and an expected curse from Sarge.

It took a second, but then Grif’s expression thawed enough to allow him to smile.

They were still holding hands when Kai burst into the room, throwing her arms around them both.

* * *

Who doesn’t love a happy ending?

Ehhhhhh… They actually get boring after a couple of hundred times.

Don’t believe me?

Well, hold your horses and call me a liar, but you gotta see what you missed.

Maestro-

 _Reeeeeplay_!

* * *

For a moment Grif’s eyes flickered towards the base in the background.

Simmons inhaled.

And then-

“C’mon,” Simmons said, tugging harder at his wrist. “You can’t stay here. You have to-“

“I don’t have to do anything,” Grif said, pulling his hand free. There was something about his eyes, something that had changed. A hurt look in the mismatched eyes, but it was clouded by a simmering anger that Simmons hadn’t seen before. “That’s not how it works. I don’t have to do something just because you say it-“

“What are you talking about?” Simmons said, reaching for his hand again but failing.

“Fuck, you are just like I remember.”

Letting his arms fall limply at his side, Simmons stared at Grif, ignoring the yelling in the background, from the other side of the portal. He tried to remember how Grif had looked before they lost him – if he’d seemed to exhausted back then, so irritated, withdrawn.

“I don’t- I don’t understand. We came to rescue you-”

“And it only took you a fucking year. What were you doing in the meantime? Trying to find Church? Again? Or did you find something more productive to waste your time on?”

Simmons opened his mouth, but no words came from it. He couldn’t seem to find them, he didn’t know what to say.

Not when Grif was staring at him with dead eyes, not when Grif had pushed him away.

And so he stayed quiet when Sarge’s hand out shot out to grab him by the arm, dragging him back into safety before the portal collapse.

Simmons’ fingers brushed against orange armor, but he fell back alone.

He just couldn’t reach him.

* * *

_Niiiice_.

Actually, wait, I think we can do better.

What did I say?

Replay!

Hah, that’s another wordplay!

Okay, stopping the rhyming just about

now.

* * *

For a moment Grif’s eyes flickered towards the base in the background.

Simmons inhaled.

And then-

“Grif!” They both jumped at the sharp yell in the distance. “Grif, where the fuck are you?!”

Eyes widened, Grif leapt backwards, away from Simmons, as if reacting by instinct.

Simmons had recognized the voice too, and he was beginning to understand why Grif’s glance was so distant.

He could hear Tucker yell, “C’mon, hurry!” but he didn’t care. Not when he didn’t have a grasp on Grif, not when he couldn’t drag him with him.

Inhaling deeply, Simmons took a step away from the portal.

“What the fuck are you-“

Tucker’s voice was cut off when the portal closed.

Simmons didn’t look over his shoulder to see it disappear. Instead he kept his eyes on Grif, watching his surprised expression.

“That was stupid,” Grif said, almost quietly. He was digging a boot into the sand, looking torn as his eyes constantly jumped to see if Temple had appeared yet.

“I know.”

Grif sighed, running a hand through his too long hair. Simmons could see it shake. “This place… It isn’t good,” Grif finally said, lowering his head in shame.

“The others will try to open the portal again,” Simmons said, trying to keep the insecurity out of his voice. But the problem was the uncertainty – the fact that he couldn’t know for sure and there was nothing he could do about it.

It occurred to him that this was what Grif had felt until now.

“This will be hard to explain to Temple.”

“I could be Gene’s long-lost cousin or something?”

Grif actually smiled at that suggestion, just for a second, but it was enough to steady Simmons’ heartbeat. This was the right thing to do.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Grif told him as they both turned around to await Temple’s arrival, unsure what would happen next.

Simmons breathed out through his nose, closing his eyes just for a moment. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, fatass.”

* * *

Oooh, what’d happen next? Well, that’s a whole other story.

One that I don’t have the time to tell.

Hey, don’t go blaming me, I’m busy! Do you know how many endings I have to keep track of? There are a lot of juicy details, my dudes, and I can’t share them all. Where’s the fun in that?

Because we are contradicting our own points at this point! That’s like one of the deadly sins of story-telling, right next to slang. Gotta keep that L-O-L for your M-O-M, am I right?

Lol, my folks. Lot of Love!

Ah, I’m going off track again.

Chapter nine, like, forever ago, the machine died a horrible death of short-circuiting.

I guess it’s hard to handle the entirety of Vic. Remember that, all the lovely A.I. ladies out there.

So… Ever wondered what happened next?

* * *

The councilmembers were all wearing suits, all black with badges to show their rank in the UNSC. It made Simmons seem out of place, feeling uncomfortable, but he was supposed to represent Chorus and the Sim Troopers, and the armor had become a too big part of their identity at this point.

Even now, with the war over, the battles had left most of the population too scared, too paranoid, to walk around without a helmet.

“Evidence #152 not only threatened the existence of the USCN – from your analysis, it would have risked planet Earth as well. In this case, I cannot see a reason that would make up for the lack of safety and responsibility that would come from handing you the evidence.”

“We won’t misuse it,” Simmons promised again, as he’d done at the last meeting. And the one before. His mouth felt dry. “Please.”

“The situation has not changed since the last time you presented your case,” another councilmember added, looking down at Simmons’ through her glasses.

“Exactly,” Simmons said, clenching his hands in frustration before quickly moving them beneath the table to hide the rude gesture. “Grif- Captain Dexter Grif is still missing, and that won’t change until we can attempt to locate him with the machine-“

“Evidence #152 presents too many risks. We cannot allow you to experiment with what can potentially destroy a planet.”

“But-“

He was cut off.

Just like last time.

“You still haven’t offered any acceptable statistics of the outcome. From what we gather, you are not even sure if the experiment would work.”

Simmons lowered his head. “We- we don’t.”

“Then why do you persist to present your case? As you must have realized by now, our judgement won’t change.”

“Because I don’t know what else to do,” Simmons said, truthfully. He’d promised only to tell the truth whenever he entered the courtroom, and yet he felt like he hadn’t spilled his heart open yet. They hadn’t understood his pleas, not truly. They didn’t know, didn’t understand the pain of having a missing teammate.

Gone.

Not dead.

Just…

Not there.

And the only chance of finding him was not in Simmons’ grasp.

A councilmember, an older one with white hair but eyes softer than Simmons had expected them to be, tilted his head. “You have shown us your theories about time-travel. A controversial subject, I believe, and still very much outside our grasp of knowledge. But if I understand the theories correctly, then there should be a chance of Captain Grif existing in this present?”

“Yes, sir,” Simmons replied. “But there is also a chance that he isn’t.”

Jax had talked them through all the time-travel scenarios, and Simmons had read books, watched movies, studied fiction and academic writing, and yet there was no final answer.

Maybe Grif had gone back in time but had eventually reached their present. Then he would be somewhere else, somewhere far away, since Simmons hadn’t found him, since Grif hadn’t found them either.

But in another theory, Grif would have left this universe to join another one.

Simmons had no answers, just questions, and no way to find a solution.

“Then, maybe,” the councilmember told him, “you just haven’t searched well enough.”

Simmons felt his vein pop in anger, but he said nothing.

“The request has been denied,” another member told him, leaning closer to his microphone.

It was the fourth time that Simmons had received this invisible punch to the chest, yet it still hurt.

“Captain Richard Simmons,” he continued after Simmons had already left the chair. “We are not obligated to inform you of this, but you should be aware that evidence #152 is scheduled to be destroyed today. It would be fruitless to present your request again.”

Simmons nodded and stumbled his way out of the room, heart beating against his ribs. Kai was waiting for him in the hallway, resting in one of the available chairs with her legs crossed, showing off too much of her thigh in his opinion.

But she’d refused to wear the armor, and it didn’t really matter since Simmons had asked her to stay out of the courtroom. He’d brought her along the last time, but she’d ended up yelling at the members, calling them names, and she’d been dragged out by a security guard that she’d proceeded to try to strangle with her thighs.

He was surprised they still allowed her inside the building.

“How did it go?” she asked him, but there was no excitement in her voice, no worry.

She already knew the answer.

He sighed, falling into the chair next to her. Burying his face in his hands, he didn’t have to speak for the next couple of minutes as he used to silence to suppress his grief.

 He’d expected this, of course. He wasn’t stupid.

But it just never stopped hurting.

“What do we do now?” Kai asked, blinking so he wouldn’t see any traces of tears on her long eyelashes.

Her makeup was just a little bit off – the colors too strong, to uneven, smudges of mascara on her cheeks as if she’d done it with a shaking hand.

Simmons couldn’t meet her eyes.

“I don’t know.”

* * *

Ah, another heartbreak.

This has been some ride, huh?

A lot of things happened, a lot of things could happen. Hard for the heart to keep up. And the brain too!

But you made it! Clap yourself on the back, my friend, you just finished a 70,000 word long novel. I bet your high school teacher didn’t expect that!

Enough with the fourth wall. I bet you are tired of me by now.

I sure as hell am tired of you!

So let’s call it a day. You got your happy ending! You got your sad ending! And you, hey you, the one in the back with that really weird mole on your face! Get that checked out by your doctor, and enjoy all the cliffhangers that made your life interesting to live through another day.

You are welcome, by the way.

 

I know it’s hard going on without me, but you have to try!

 

 

So.

This is it.

The end.

Or ends?

Who cares about grammar anyway?

 

Alright, time to say goodbye.

Take a deep breath, pull yourself together. You can do this.

Even though I’m way too awesome to leave floating around in space as an infinite part of the universe.

But, hey, better than rotting in a coffin all day.

Not having a body rules.

Oh, and good luck with the whole being alive thing.

 

This is it.

 

 

Here we come.

 

Hold your breath.

 

Goodbye.

 

 

Wait, waitwaitwait, I just remembered – you guys don’t like goodbyes, right? Because some self-absorbed asshole just had to make a whole sentimental monologue to put me in this position.

 

Well

in that case.

 

Adieu.

Arrivederci.

Au revoir.

Sayonara.

Farvel.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wait!

Let’s just do one more.

 

For all the soft hearts out there.

This is one is for you.

Yours for- _ever_ ,

Vic the Almighty Time-God.

Man, that sounds so good. Oops, spoiled the tension there. We try again.

We are going back to the beginning.

Curtain opens. Hold your breath, my dudes and dudettes.

Drrrrrrrumroll.

Polka song

is

 _on_.

 

* * *

A maroon hand clasped around an orange wrist.

“Holy fuck,” Simmons said, groaning when he suddenly was in charge of keeping Grif’s entire weight upright. He groaned, clenching his teeth as he stood firmly and pulled.

It wasn’t the first time he’d felt thankful for his metal arm, but right now, Simmons felt like kissing Sarge for giving him the tool to keep Grif from falling.

Or maybe he should in fact kiss Grif since he was the one who’d been run over and had caused the cyborg surgery in the first place.

Yeah, maybe he should kiss Grif.

The portal closed with a blinding flash, and Simmons lost his footing, resulting in Grif falling on top of him, knocking the air out of his lungs when they painfully made contact.

And then it was over.

No one had fallen through it.

Grif was a dead weight on top of him, and in order to breathe, Simmons had to push him off himself.

The orange soldier smacked against the floor, letting out a deep huff in the process. The way his body remained limp caused Simmons to frown and kneel over him to pull the helmet off him with shaking fingers.

And then the visor was no longer a barricade between them, and Grif’s mismatched eyes were staring at him, widened and confused and alarmed, but most of all relieved.

Simmons could hear the others mutter around them, Dylan talking about the end of the world, and Tucker whistling.

But he just focused on Grif, leaning closer to return his smile.

“Going somewhere, fatass?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys. You made it! Can you believe that!
> 
> When I began this fic, I had no idea that s16 would be about time-travel. So let's ignore all the theories proven in the show, because I had this planned from the beginning.
> 
> Well, 'planned' is a big word. But I always knew the fic would end like this, with more than one ending. It was something experimental, sure, and I wasn't sure how you guys would accept it, but here we are, with a fic much longer than I intended it to be.
> 
>  
> 
> But I regret nothing, and here I am, with a finished story, so grateful for all the support I've received. Thank you so, so much.
> 
> This is the end, folks.
> 
> Because I sure as hell am never going to write more Vic dialogue in my life.
> 
> ALSO IMPORTANT:  
> If you guys are interested, I made a playlist for this fic :) I song for each chapter.  
> http://riathedreamer.tumblr.com/post/178770064987/it-took-a-year-but-if-is-finally-done-writing

**Author's Note:**

> As always: English is not my native language so I apologize for all the mistakes I did not catch.
> 
> I'm riathedreamer on tumblr if you wanna scream at me.


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